


Two for the Road

by Neocolai



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Peter Parker, It’s Star Wars and Avengers anything is game, Jedi Avengers, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Peter Parker Can't Thermoregulate, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter learns it’s okay to be a spider, Tony Stark Can’t Follow the Rules, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony trains Peter, and Tony’s okay with it because literally aliens everywhere, and a padawan braid, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28879014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neocolai/pseuds/Neocolai
Summary: A Harch descendant afraid of his own powers.A grey Jedi haunted by the past.One way or another, Tony was always destined to look after the kid.(Small oneshot series)
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 35
Kudos: 87





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Will of the Force](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908928) by [madasthesea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madasthesea/pseuds/madasthesea). 



> The Star Wars theme is completely inspired by the series “In a galaxy far, far away” by madasthesea (also one of my favorite Spider Man authors). I won’t lay claim to the framework of the idea but I sure enjoyed building on it!

There were always masters to go around. Force-Sensitives were rare and precious, or so younglings were told from the cradle. Not everyone could harness the Living Force. Every initiate was expected to be trained at some point, even if they had to take lessons from random members of the council until they were too old for anything more than a pat on the shoulder and a perfunctory, “Congratulations on your Knighting.”

Every initiate would succeed in finishing the path of their training, but to deny favoritism among the sought-after masters would be like proclaiming that Master Goose was nothing more than a sweet, fluffy tabby. (Which they did. Whenever the Elites weren’t listening in.) In fact, the initiates had their own system for cataloging the master they wanted. It was a hierarchy as old as the temple itself.

There were the Newly Knighted, hesitant and plastic-smiled, always second-guessing their own methods as they relived their faults through the eyes of a child. (Good for the babes, fresh out of their nursery classes, but bad rep for the older students.) The Seconds were less stilted, but with such Jedi there was always _the padawan before_ — the one to live up to (or to try desperately not to emulate). Then there were the Experienced, tried and true, who watched and probed and shaped a padawan into a knight according to their given strengths. (Padawans with Experienced masters boasted significantly fewer squabbles and more one-on-one time — which actually equated to grueling lessons and bizarre meditation schemes, but the training always seemed to pay off.) The Elite were coveted: battle-hardened warriors who chose their padawans sparingly and were always sent on the most daring missions. Anyone chosen by an Elite would be guaranteed a knighting within the decade (provide they survived their first Sith encounter).

Then there was the A-Team. The ones who specialized in covert operations; who garnered whispers in the halls. Grey Jedi. Honorable Bandits. Shrewd knights shaded by the dark, one foot planted in the light. They were usually the ones nominated as “temporary instructors” until the initiate could be pawned off to a real Jedi. Maybe they didn’t have time for kids, or maybe the council wouldn’t let them take on padawans (rumor had it at least two were always dating on the sly; hardly an example for vulnerable minds). They had the most unorthodox methods, the most dangerous missions, and the most _fun_. Any initiate would give their right hand to call a member of the A-Team “master” for a single day.

But it didn’t matter whether a youngling was chosen by a newbie or a specialist. Sooner or later, every Force-Sensitive would be trained. There might be a probation period, or the transition from trainee to padawan when a temporary tutor finally passed their student on to a master, but gifts of the Force weren’t wasted.

Unless you were really that unlucky — and if the Parker luck was anything to go by, Peter was a failure from the start.

“Hey, Palamate!”

A shove to his spine and a gentle Force nudge sent him sprawling into one of the temple fountains, cold water swarming his throat as his datapad fizzed.

“Not cool, Flash,” Initiate Liz Toomes called as Peter tugged himself over the stone edge, shaking tadpoles out of his soggy robes. She sighed and picked up his datapad with two fingers, grimacing when the screen went grey and sparked out. “Right before supper — again?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” answered Initiate Thompson, his mouth turning down in mock sympathy. “Palamate means web-footed, you know. I thought he liked the water.”

“Yeah, thanks for the morning vocabulary expansion,” Peter snapped, snatching back his datapad and futilely rubbing the screen. “It wouldn’t kill you to find someone else to practice your vernacular on.”

“You would accuse me of being parabolic, Parasitaster,” Flash crooned. “All I wanted was to establish my parapsychological thesis of the unwanted padawan.”

It took Peter a few minutes to piece together the words (and safely extricate the goldfish from his boot). “Para...phsy... Wait, seriously? You’re basing your Intergalactic Relations thesis on mental —“

“Unexplained mental phenomena,” Flash deadpanned. “Like the inexplicable delusion that Parenticide Parker won’t turn to the dark side before knighthood. It’s a fascinating theory — you should try staying awake in class when I give my presentation tomorrow.”

“Flash, there’s no such thing as an unwanted padawan,” Liz interjected crossly, making an obvious attempt to divert the subject. “Every padawan will eventually have a master. No talent is wasted in the Force.”

“Yeah, I know — they had us memorize that in year one,” Flash said briskly. “I just think it’ll be rough if Parlous here breaks the system. You know, I just don’t want him to be hurt if he’s never....” Conspiratorially loud, he whispered, “ _Chosen_.”

“Stop it, Flash,” Liz groaned, rolling her eyes. “We’re all initiates. Sooner or later we’ll all face the trials and some of us will get lucky. Others will just have to wait a bit longer.”

“Yeah, like his parents did,” Flash said with a generous shrug. “You’re totally right. I’m sure the right master will pick him once he’s all grown-up and ready to pucker his lips at the nearest —“

Peter probably should have paid heed to the tingle at the back of his neck warning him that several knights were approaching. He should have told Flash to stick it and stalked off to change his soggy robes. No, he should have just walked away and let the masters handle it.

Somehow he wound up in a tangle of thrashing limbs and throbbing fists. Dimly he felt small hands tugging on his collar as Liz yelled, “Guys, stop it! They’re coming!”

Two sets of hands suddenly pried him and Flash apart. Sharp words and snarling voices were buffeted by waves in the Force that urged for calm as the knights dragged them to their feet. Across the room, Masters Tony Stark and Pepper Potts paused on their way to the council room, and Peter’s rants died in his throat as cool brown eyes surveyed the scene. What a sight: squabbling children, held back only by the knights wrestling them into a headlock; no better than a couple of dougs fighting over the winnings of a drag race. Ridiculous.

Peter ducked his head in shame, heat flooding his cheeks. What a way to stand out to the A-Team.

Little wonder he still didn’t have a master.

* * *

“I want one.”

“You know what I’m going to say, Tony.”

“The last one was... different. I don’t work well with tweenagers.”

“Oh, so that’s what they are now? Strange, I thought nineteen was nearly a knight.”

“Which is exactly why we didn’t get along. I should’ve started younger.”

“Tony, we’ve both agreed you’re not the best influence on children. Besides, we’re hardly a prestigious example.”

“Are you kidding? Those babies adore us. They have their own name for us. I mean, I thought the Elite were cool when I was a kid. We’re cooler than cool. We’re like — beyond Master Goose awesome.”

“Which is exactly why you’re not in charge of training the younglings anymore. Arrogance is —“

“Of the dark side, I know. Can we just take it in for once? Just take, like — 12% of the credit for being totally inspirational to the kiddos.”

“Hmm, tempting.”

“See, this is why you should be on the council. More brains, less fuss, more fun all around.”

“No, this is why you need to start brushing up on the code. You can’t train a padawan if you don’t remember what it means to be a Jedi.”

“So you’re saying I can have one after all.”

Sunset always burdened the council room with twisting shadows, and Master Fury moved amongst them like a deathstick dealer honing in on the riffraff of Courascant’s lower levels. “I trust there’s a logical explanation why two initiates would be caught squabbling like womp rats over a carcass in the Room of a Thousand Fountains."

The key words was probably “squabbling,” but Peter thought there was an uncanny emphasis on the notion that they’d been caught. Well, Fury did allegedly form the A-Team. They weren't exactly renowned for using conventional methods.

“I was just on my way to class,” Flash stammered. “Honest!”

“Did I inquire as to the original intention?” Master Fury stated. “Perhaps I wasn’t making myself clear. Why were you fighting on the temple grounds?”

Again the redirection; fixating on the disadvantage of location, not the misdemeanor itself. Why not scold them for disorderly behavior and be done with it? Was this a test?

“Fighting in the Fountain Room is counterproductive to the atmosphere, and it could endanger others,” Peter considered, thinking fast as he nudged a deflated tadpole behind his boot. “Younglings use that room to study stages of life. There could’ve been collateral damage.”

“What, so we should’ve pasted one another in the dueling court?” Flash scoffed. “Cause if that’s the case it could totally have waited until the trials.”

“If you think the purpose of the padawan trials is to bludgeon your opponent, perhaps so,” Master Fury said, casting Flash a disgruntled look. “A review of the Jedi Code would serve you well, Initiate Thompson. Report to Master Hill — tell her to put on Tracks 16a-104c. She’ll know what you mean.”

Flash gawked. “That... that many? But that’ll take hours! I have to present a thesis tomorrow.”

“Those who seek to abide by the code should understand what it entails,” Fury said. “I’m sure you can support your thesis better with a few limericks running through your head. If you like, she can put on the children’s version. I hear the tunes are catchy.”

“No, sir,” Flash pleaded, his eyes wide in despair. “That won’t be necessary.”

“16a through 104c,” Master Fury directed. “Consider yourself fortunate that you’re not presenting a new thesis — in front of the council.”

“What about Parker?” Flash said, casting Peter a sharp glance. “Shouldn’t we report in together?”

“I’m not finished with Initiate Parker yet,” Fury said. “Is there anything else you need to add — or should I have you report to the healing ward for a sudden lack of auditory perception?”

“No, Master Fury,” Flash said, bowing quickly. “I’ll be on my way.”

Master Fury snorted when the doors swished shut. “Kids these days.”

Crackling dark eyes riveted on Peter, who winced. “I don’t condone quarreling among the Jedi,” Master Fury warned him. “That being said, perhaps you can explain some of your reasoning behind this afternoon's exhibition. You seem to have it in your head that there are rules outside of the temple. A life beyond the code.”

“No, sir,” Peter said quietly. “The Jedi live by the code. We’re not... To act otherwise would be to embrace the dark side.” Or something like that. Was it wrong to fight for a good cause? Historically, Jedi were trained to battle against the Sith. Surely the lightsaber katas weren’t meant for elaborate baton dances.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you’re a habitual fibber?” Fury wryly accused him. “Makes me think of some other unorthodox Jedi. They don’t fit in too well, either.”

“I let Flash goad me, I’ll... I’ll do better,” Peter insisted. “I won’t turn out like....”

“Like Knights Fitzpatrick and Parker,” Fury said solemnly.

Peter stared at his boots.

“There’s a lot about your origins that you don’t know,” Fury established. He rubbed his hands together, as though preparing to launch into a historical analogy, and then announced shortly, “Katas. Makashi Form. You can practice “finding calm” in the Room of a Thousand Fountains. A master will notify you when you’re finished.”

Grimacing, Peter nodded. That could mean drilling hours into the night. In wet robes. (It was still better than listening to recordings of the Jedi Code in song form.)

“Dismissed, Initiate Parker.”

Dismissed, put out, expelled from the premises. Was it true that initiates who didn’t “work out” were eventually removed from the temple?

_There’s no such thing as an unwanted padawan,_ Peter told himself firmly. But there were knights who couldn’t help but dip into the dark.

He had to be better.

“Makashi. Nice.”

At least detention wasn’t lonely when there were insomniacs wandering around the temple. Peter nodded jerkily at Padawan Jones, sweaty hands readjusting around his lightsaber as he swung into the third cadence.

“I prefer Djem So,” Michelle said, her new padawan blade sparking in the dark like a swarm of green fireflies. “It’s funny to see people tripping over their own lightsabers.”

She fell into step with Peter, the complex duelist weave overshadowing his secondary form, and pulled a frown at his grim expression. “What, Parker luck got you down again? You know it’s okay to stick out sometimes. That’s what the A-Team is all about.”

“It’s not “Parker luck,” and I’m fine,” Peter insisted.

Michelle snorted. “Yeah, cause you _love_ drilling late at night when you have to present a thesis in the morning. I’m starting to think you’re rooting for my job.”

“Not everyone can be habitual insomniacs,” Peter quipped.

“Nah, the rest are just worry-warts,” Michelle said. “I heard Flash got stuck listening to mantras again. What’d you guys do this time — set fire to the council room?”

“Fell into the guppy pool.”

“Barbaric. Gotta respect those baby frogs.” Michelle spiraled out of cadence, slotting her lightsaber under Peter’s and spinning it into her hand. “Wanna ditch the kidsie katas and duel for a bit?”

“I’m on detention,” Peter said, snatching back his training 'saber with a sigh.

“And that implies that you always follow the rules,” Michelle retorted. She fell into step beside him, parroting his form. It looked darn clumsy when she dipped her lightsaber like... oh. Gritting his teeth, Peter straightened his own stance, ignoring the padawan’s smirk.

“Hey, I heard Ned was pulled aside by Master Carter yesterday,” Michelle said. “Pretty soon we’ll all be boring padawans.”

“Ned got a master?” Peter burst out. The most important marker in his best friend's training, and he missed it!

“Yeah, right in the middle of supper, too.” Michelle snickered. “I thought he’d choke on a cracknel.”

Supper. Peter’s stomach growled in protest. He’d missed a meal again, thanks to Flash’s meddling. (No, thanks to his own impulsive temper. A Jedi didn’t shift blame on the mistakes of others. Funny how he didn’t remember that until his arms were shaking off with Form II.)

“You’re quiet tonight,” Michelle said soberly. “What, council gotcha down? It’s not your first detention.”

“Could be my last,” Peter said bitterly. “Master Fury mentioned my parents. I think... he could mean...”

“Right, ‘cause your parents hitching up before Knighthood automatically makes you a Sith baby,” Michelle drawled. “You know they discourage linking paternal influences to a padawan’s future. “A Jedi is not the sum components of the past” and all that jargon. That’s why Jedi aren’t supposed to mate.”

“Attachments are forbidden,” Peter quoted.

“Which is exactly why Knight Barton has a dozen kiddies running around Theed,” Michelle scoffed. “You know the rules don’t apply to the Grey Jedi. That’s why they never get padawans.” She tilted her head and appraised him thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re destined to be a Grey Jedi. It’s not such a bad job. Like, you actually get to kill people.”

“MJ!”

“What? Everybody knows they get the gritty assignments that no one else can handle without going dark. How else did they stop the Naboo invasion?”

“The Jedi stand for peace, not conflict,” Peter said, negating the troubling thought before it could settle in his head.

“Right. And Peter Parker doesn’t execute tadpoles in a fountain flounder.”

“Who’s killing baby frogs?”

Both younglings spiraled, eyes wide in startled fright as a Jedi detached from a far pillar; wraithlike, as though he was one with the shadows. “Master Stark!” they cried out.

“You know murder is on the no-go list,” Tony said, peering concernedly at the fountain to Peter’s right. “Also, I’m supposed to discourage violence, bullying and general peevish feelings. MJ, you’re not on detention. Shouldn’t you be passed out with a nighty-night light? Master Okoye runs a pretty harsh schedule.”

“Aw, no,” Michelle said, brushing off his dismissal with a cool shrug. “My master gets up early. I’m just warming up until she gets here.”

“You do realize normal children thrive on bedtime routines,” Tony pointed out. “Never mind. Parker, you’re with me. Post-detention lecture and all.”

“Is this the point where you tell him “do what I say not what I do?”’ Michelle snarked.

“You know what, that sass is not appreciated. I’m going to tell your master to give you ten detentions. In the mess hall. Scrubbing pots. Which is supposed to be super boring, so I hear — not that I’d know from personal experience, I was always a model student.” Spinning on his heel, Tony snapped his fingers impatiently. “Parker, we're blowing this joint. Put the glowstick away — incinerating guppies is officially on the not-okay list.”

Deactivating the training ‘saber, Peter set it back on the rack and then darted to catch up as Tony strode ahead.

“All right, I’ll give you the short run on the do’s and don’ts list. Don’t use death sticks, be nice to your fellow undergrads, don’t take figda sweets from creepy old ladies — you ever been off Courascant before? No? You’ll love it. Believe it or not, there’s this thing called grass on most other planets. It’s all green and prickly, and some people get hives from it but it’s worth it, trust me. FRIDAY, remind me to put meadow excursions on the bonding list. I’m sure Master Fury can spare us a few less tedious missions. In fact, there’s one city in the outer rim called Mos Espa — you’re too young for it, trust me — but the dancers are amazing, and the food is actually quite....”

“Master Stark,” Peter interrupted, huffing to keep up with the Jedi’s lengthy stride. “Master Stark, I don’t understand. I’m not supposed to go off-planet, not until I’m part of an official team —”

“Gotta have that braid, right,” Tony mused. “Well, we’ll take care of that. You’re okay with spontaneity, right? I’ve seen you practice... on one or two occasions. Maybe last year. Fury says you’re spunky, and marginally intelligent. Smart enough to pull your punches so you don’t pulverize someone’s head, at least. Say, how does it feel to be one-eighth Harch and never use your powers?”

“You were not supposed to know that,” Peter said, swallowing against the sudden dryness in throat. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d un-know that.”

“What, that your mother was a quarter spider with four arms and a wicked personality?” Tony said. “So what can you do? Spin webs in the ceiling corners? Do you have insane flexibility?” He spun around to give Peter a sharp look-over. “You don’t require a steady diet of flies and mosquitoes, do you?”

“What? No!” Peter hissed. “Would you please keep it down? It’s bad enough without everyone knowing —“

“That your mother originated from Secundus Ando and she allegedly lured your father into an unholy wedlock before she ate him? Rumors, of course,” Tony said, whipping around to continue his brisk pace. “I worked with both your parents. Charming people, if a little odd. It’s a shame, really — you’re just like them.”

“I know,” Peter said, turning his head away before his eyes could glimmer too bright. “That’s what everyone says.”

Stopping abruptly, Tony turned around and looked down with an indiscernible expression. “Kid, you can either keep flinching every time they’re mentioned or you can take it as a compliment. Your parents were brave people. Never made it to knighthood, but they weren’t the first to skip the master’s initiation. If you ask me, all that padawan ceremonialism is a waste of emotional investment. People dying all over the galaxy and all they care about is whether or not there’s a bead on the silly braid.”

It wasn’t a wasted investment. It _wasn’t_ . Being a padawan was everything — the initiates who made it to knighthood on the substitute system, they just weren’t good enough. Unwanted. Never bonded. _Alone_.

“Of course, if you want beads on your braid I won’t stop you,” Tony prattled on. “Useless pieces of jewelry if you ask me. Unless there’s an inbuilt tracker. FRIDAY, remind me to put a tracker in Peter’s braid.”

“Whatever you say, Boss,” chimed the hovercam droid at his shoulder.

“Wait!” Peter staggered, grasping at Tony’s sleeve, his brain screaming alternate messages of _‘It has to be!_ ’ and _‘You’re reading it wrong!_ ’ “My — my padawan braid?”

“Course, Spiderling — you don’t mind if I call you Spiderling, right? Deny it all you want, it’s in your DNA. We can make it a spider bead if you want — tracker included, of course. No ands, buts or arguments on this one. Kriff, I sound just like my dad.”

“Is this....” _Please say yes, please let it be so._ “Are you going to train me?”

“Well, the other knights will probably have a hand in it,” Tony amended. “I swear Nat is part Charon and Cap has to put everyone through the wringer before they’re part of the team. He’ll give you the long version of the “Don’t Do Drugs” lecture.”

“Oh,” Peter realized, stepping back. He cleared his throat, squashing down the disappointment. (Which shouldn’t be there because it was never meant to be.) “So it’s a group effort, then.” Special training with a handful of masters until he was considered old enough to last on his own.

“Well, if you want to call it that,” Tony agreed, continuing the walk. “Of course, team members can’t share bonds — we tried that already — and I’ll expect you to report to me if you have any questions. Unless it’s about questionable moral obligations; that’s what I programmed Jarvis for. He’ll be your Jedi compass. Nat will probably cover spideylympics, Buckaroo will work with you on close combat, Barton will let you vent any teenage angsty feelings as long as he takes out his hearing aides first — and don’t coddle Dum-E. That scrap of metal loves getting kicked around, trust me on that. He was programmed for battery. Don’t kick the droid, by the way — that’s Sithy behavior. Just do as I say, not as I do.”

“I understand,” Peter said quietly. It was always too much to hope for — the A-Team never took padawans, much less a freak of genetic happenstance. It would’ve been nice, though; to be chosen at the same time as Ned and MJ. To not be left behind.

“Hey, why the gloomy face?” Tony said, tapping him under the chin. “I’m not that bad of a prospect for a master, am I? So maybe I’m not as cool as Danvers or a rule-stickler like Coulson, but I thought that was your vibe.”

“What...?” Peter said feebly, not daring to think. To hope. To imagine a brilliant future.

“Rule-bending. Grey area. Trust in the Force, not the flow. Concentrate on the little things that matter most.” Tony’s mouth turned down in a cringe. “I guess the “failed padawan” rep already leaked out to the next generation. It’s cool, kid. I’d want a successful master myself, if I had another chance. I’m sure I could put in a good word for you if you’d rather train with someone like —“

“No, no wait,” Peter pleaded, grabbing his hand. “Are you... you’re offering to train me?” _Just me and you, bonded, master and padawan, no substitutes, no transitions, no dropping out once there’s someone else to fill the spot._

“Just you and me,” Tony said. He grimaced and added, “Well, and the rest of the A-Team. We’re kind of a packaged deal. But if that’s too many trainers I can always —“

“No, it’s fine!” Peter gushed. “It’s fine. I want to — I’d be glad to — I’m honored — there’s nobody I’d rather —“

“Kay, we’re good then?” Tony said, clapping his shoulder and herding him along. “I’m going to take that nervous stammering as a sign of exhaustion and sleep deprivation, because you are seriously going to have to work on that before you meet the rest of the crew. Can’t have you fainting on your first mission.”

“Mission?” Peter parroted. “We have a mission already? Isn’t there supposed to be a training stage first? Doesn’t the council mandate when a new team is ready to leave the temple?”

“First rule of the A-Team, Spiderling,” Tony established, “There is only one council, and that consists of Jarvis, Rhodes, Wilson and Rogers. Sometimes Fury is allowed to give out orders. Otherwise, you take your questions and concerns to the people who give two kriffs about the galaxy. Those people who sit on cushy chairs all day while staring into the beyond? Not your friends. Until you’re a knight — then you can kiss up to them all you want. You want to be an A-Team padawan, you gotta learn to think outside the code. Think you can do that?”

Nodding jerkily as the glow inside threatened to burst out in a herald of nervous laughter, Peter answered, “Yes. Definitely, Master Stark. Absolutely. No problem. But what if the council does order us on a mission?”

“Leave that for the big kids to decide,” Tony said, awkwardly clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Until your greyscale senses are fine-tuned, just pay attention to your elders. Kriff, we gotta get you a lightsaber first don’t we? Think you can manage with a glowrod until we finish on Melida/Daan? It shouldn’t be too deadly — maybe a mild skirmish. You can use a blaster, right?”

“Uh... yes? I mean, we don't have training blasters, but you just point and shoot, right? Not that hard,” Peter said with a shaky grin.

Tony rolled his eyes. “They leave you kids babies forever, don’t they? Come on. I think FRIDAY has a few training programs she can run you through. How much sleep does a spider-baby need? We've got an early start in the morning. Hope you don’t mind skipping the braid until we get back from Ilum, by the way. Have you given any thought to your first lightsaber? I’ve got a dozen prototypes you can choose from.....”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flash's Dictionary for Peter Parker Pseudonyms:
> 
> Palamate — having webbed feet  
> Parasitaster — a mean or sorry parasite  
> Parenticide — a person who kills their parents  
> Parlous — full of danger and risk


	2. First Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter meets the team, and learns the expectations for a scrawny padawan tagging along on a covert mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the beginner's support! Reviews give me so much inspiration and they make me feel like I'm adding something to the writing community. Have another chapter!
> 
> (I'm trying to keep each chapter as a self-standing adventure so as to avoid lengthy cliffhangers in case life catches up to me. Which leaves this story with... really long chapters...)

“Ned! Ned, wake up!”

“Whuh? Peter, what are you doing here?” Ned squinted blearily at his chrono and groaned. “Did you  _ just _ finish detention? I thought the Jedi were above torture.”

“No, it’s more than that, it’s — this is great — you won't believe — Master Tony chose me as his padawan!”

Slow-blinking eyes flew open and Ned gaped, swinging upright. “What?  _ The _ Master Stark? From the A-Team? I thought they weren’t allowed to take padawans!”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought, but he came to pick me up from detention and I guess it’s all official,” Peter gushed. “We’re supposed to leave on mission in an hour and he’s gonna teach me how to make a lightsaber and I guess I can make my own after the mission and the whole team is going to be there, I’m actually going off-world, Ned!”

“Wait, wait, wait. Slow down,” Ned urged, a dreadful somberness stealing over his excitement. “You’re going on a mission with the  _ whole team _ , right?”

“Well yeah, but as Master Stark’s padawan,” Peter insisted. “I mean, I don’t have the braid yet but he promised we’d settle everything afterwards....”

“But,” Ned interjected.

Some of the light died in Peter’s eyes. “Ned, don’t say it like that. He said he’d train me, right?”

“Yeah.... like he and the A-Team trained Beck, and Gwen, and Harley,” Ned said warily. “It’s not a long-term post, Peter. Maybe it’s just for one mission.”

“It’s — it's not just for one mission,” Peter argued. “He talked about putting a tracker in my braid, and taking me to Ilum, and setting me up to train with the other masters, and — and — Ned, don’t look at me like that!”

“I just... don’t want you to be disappointed,” Ned said anxiously. “I mean, I’m happy for you — I really am! I didn’t get to tell you before, but Master Carter asked me to be her padawan and I want you to have the same chance. I’m just scared it’s only temporary. The A-Team never takes on padawans, Peter. Not ever.”

“Well... maybe I’m the first one,” Peter said with a nervous chuckle. “Anyways, I’ll know by the end of the mission, right? At least I can... learn something... they’re legendary masters....”

“I want it to be real,” Ned said, his sympathy bashing against Peter’s senses. “No one deserves it more than you. And if it’s not meant to be, then at least you'll have all the more prestige to show off when the trials come, right?”

“It’s not exactly prestigious to be singled out by the A-Team and then dropped,” Peter said grimly. “Transition padawans always turn out bad.”

“Knight Nakia was a transitioner,” Ned pointed out, “And then Master Korg chose her and now she heads the anti-trafficking efforts for the Perlemian Trade Route. It’s not bad to wait for a master. You just need the right one.”

“Yeah,” Peter said thickly, closing off the heavy curtain of disillusionment.  _ But I thought I had the right one. _

“Who knows, maybe it’ll work out with Master Stark after all,” Ned said with forced cheer. “Maybe everyone’s wrong about the A-Team working solo. It’s not the first time people have been wrong about you.” Eyes widening comically, he blurted, “In a good way, of course. I mean, they didn’t expect you to be taken as an initiate — but that’s cool because you proved them wrong and you’re definitely not evil and —”

“Nah, it’s okay, Ned,” Peter said, forcing a smile. “Whatever happens, at least I’ll get some good training, right? I mean... going out with the A-Team? Can’t beat that....”

“I hope it’s real,” Ned said earnestly. “I really do.”

“Yeah, well... sorry to wake you,” Peter said, edging away from the bunk. “We’re leaving in an hour. Just wanted to catch you and let you know.”

“Hey, we’re still friends, right?” Ned said uncertainly, fear quaking in his voice. “Even if we don’t see each other as often?”

“What? Of course we’re still friends!” Peter insisted, reaching out to slap out the handshake they’d invented. “Who else will I tell about my adventures when I get back?”

“Yeah, that’s the nice thing about the A-Team... they only killed one Jedi,” Ned admitted. He glanced at Peter’s paling expression and blustered, “I mean, it was Master Coulson but he didn’t stay dead long enough for a cremation, and then there were the trio that hung out with the Odinsons but they were only knights and technically they were battling a crazy Nightsister at the time and —“

“You know, it’s cool,” Peter said, hands braced against the flow of words as he backed away. “I’m sure it’ll just be an easy mission, just there and back. They aren't even bothered that I don't have a real lightsaber yet."

Ned’s face dropped. “Oh. So it really isn’t official-official.”

“I guess I’ll find out, won’t I?” Peter said softly. “Anyways, I’ll buzz you on Melida/Daan. Wish me luck!”

“Hey Peter!” Ned called, catching him before he could flit out the door. "May the Force be with you.”

“Tell me that’s not your perception of the Living Force.”

Peter cracked one eye open, cringing when he saw Tony looming above him. He hadn’t even sensed the man’s approach. How did they  _ do _ that?

“Peter. Spidey. What is this?”

“Um... I’m meditating?” The rest of the A-Team had yet to board, and Peter had a few anxieties to sift through. Crossed legs, closed eyes, hands open to the Force... That was how Master Peggy taught them. Was he stooping his posture too much? Not opening his mind enough?

“Is that comfortable?” Tony wondered. “Doesn't look comfortable. How do you even sit like that? How’s it feel to have a limber skeleton? It must be so nice. The immortality of youth; makes me miss my initiate days.”

Oh. So it... really was just an initiate stage, then. Peter swallowed and dropped his hands.

“Something bugging you, Kid?”

“No! Course not. Ummm...” Turning around, Peter straightened his spine, looking up expectantly. “What’s the appropriate stance for meditation?”

“Whatever you want. You tell me,” Tony said enigmatically. “Did someone reach down into the crib and teach you how to breathe? I told you, you gotta find your own Force around here. Nobody’s gonna school you on parlor tricks.” Slapping the wall above Peter’s head, he announced, “C’mon, Kiddo. Party’s here. Why don’t you come meet the team?”

Peter scrambled, hastily smoothing down his initiate robes.  _ Stay calm, stay calm, they’re just the coolest people in the galaxy and you’re going to work with them until you’re shipped back to Coruscant. _

His breath left him in an airless gasp as he followed Tony into the body of  _ The Avenger _ . There they were, the legends of the century. Bruce Banner, renowned for Force-punching an entire tank through the wall of a Separatist stronghold. His dubious heritage from something fuzzy, stocky and green looked less murderous and vaguely cuddly due to the innocuous folds of soft brown and sage robes. By the entrance stood Steve Rogers, Coruscanti to the core, the poster image of a Jedi Master in smooth, creamy linen and shining boots. Clint Barton slouched in the holochess nook, traditional layers exchanged for the blue tunic and padded armor favored by soldiers of Naboo. (The stories claimed he went rogue during the battle for Theed and led a series of covert strikes from the catacombs under the palace.) Count James “Rhodey” Rhodes was poised in a deep navy tunic and mantle — the rich material indicative of his family’s position on Corellia. Leaning against the narrow hall entrance was the elusive Palliduvan, Natasha Romanoff; rumored runaway princess of Kijimi (or maybe she was a spice lord’s daughter — the story changed every time). Her tight-fitting, copper ensemble looked like tainted blood against pasty white skin.

“He’s staring,” Clint whispered, shooting Natasha a teasing smile.

“Contrary to the speculation for my species, I don’t bleed out children,” she drawled, green eyes raking over Peter dismissively as she flicked a long, needlepoint nail.

“Introductions needed?” Tony wondered. “Team, Peter — Peter, team. Um, blondie over there is Cap, because he thinks he's in charge, that's Nat and we don't dare give her a nickname, the old stooge in the corner is Grandpappy because he has way too many kids, fancy robes over there is Count, but you can call him Master Rhodes, and the hulking green furball is Muppet. Oh, and that’s your moral compass over there. Jarvis, give a wave?”

A burgundy and gold protocol droid leaned away from the console, giving Peter his first friendly smile since stepping on board. “Welcome to  _ The Avenger _ , Padawan Parker.”

"So it’s official then, right?” Peter stammered, even though his brain was screaming  _ ‘You fool, shut up! _ ’ Better than to erase all doubt than to keep wondering where he stood. “I’m actually a padawan now?”

“Sure, Spidey,” Tony said, idly ruffling his hair as he stepped past. To Barton he directed, “Are all younglings nervous bundles of insecurity, or do they just make ‘em like that these days?”

“It’s normal,” Barton reassured him.

“Really? I don’t remember being this queasy about my first apprenticeship. Of course I was sixteen by then and ready to ditch the planet....” Clicking his fingers in a rapid snap trick, he spun around to reintegrate Peter into the group. “Well, now you’ve met the A-Team. Still got a few members off-mission but this is as good a start as any. Feel free to probe them about any meditation tips. Jarvis, take us out.”

Then he just... left. Shimmied into the next corridor, vacated the floor, ditched the crowd. Leaving Peter alone with a team of elite masters.

“He’s like that,” Barton spoke up, probably sensing the irrepressible tide of doubting teenager.  _ Karablast _ , Peter was probably radiating everything to the masters. He had to find somewhere to calm down, to repress his emotions, to find that elusive peace in the Force that Master Danvers always talked about....

“Peter, I want you to take deep breaths,” Bruce coaxed, sage and brown and spongy fur wavering in Peter’s vision. “Don’t focus on all the life forms around you. It’s just you and the Force within.”

Find the Force within, he was alone in a big room, he was alone in a big room  _ with the A-Team — _

“Deep breaths, Peter.”

He breathed. Colors finally pieced into separate uniforms and he sat back heavily, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m fine. Really, I’m good. I just a little — I’m not usually this — I should start meditating now.” Anything not to look at the others. Five minutes into a mission and he had a panic attack over a meet and greet? How lame was that?

“It’s all right. First time off-planet is always a little startling,” Bruce said gently. “Tony’s not especially good with introductions. How about I tell you a little about the Jedi you’ll be working with. Think you can follow me for a few minutes?”

“Yeah, sure!” Peter spluttered, popping his eyes open and tugging on the suddenly too-tight, sweltering collar of his tunic. “Um, this is only half the team, right?”

“More or less,” Bruce acknowledged. “I’m the unofficial medic of the group. Usually that’s someone else’s job but we can't expect a healer to accompany us on every mission, so they taught me a few tricks. Try not to bleed out on your first mission, though; it’s no fun waking up in a bacta tank.”

“No bleeding out period!” Tony yelled from the other room.

“You’ve... already met Tony,” Bruce said with a dry chuckle. “He’s kind of a mixed bag. We all are. You’ve heard the stories, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter said, head bobbing like an excited Kiros bird. “Master Romanoff is like a sick assassin, and Master Barton can pick off a hoverdroid at three hundred paces, and Master Rhodes practically invented Juyo form, and Master Rogers —“

“By the Force, he really doesn’t shut up,” Tony commented, popping around the hall partition to stare. Just as quickly he urged, “No no, Kid. Keep it up. We’re all Grey Jedi here. We love hearing tall tales about our grand exploits.”

“I guess... I’m just excited to finally meet you all,” Peter said sheepishly.

“Well, it’s not going to be kittens and daisies, Kid,” Rhodey said. “I assume Master Stark warned you....”

“I did!” Tony interjected. “I did. Warn him. A-Team? Not for the faint of heart. Consider yourself warned, just in case the Count thinks I’m neglecting my job.”

“Oh, we’re thinking it,” Rhodey said, without an ounce of humor to lighten the jab. “Nothing against you, Kid, but we’re not exactly a cozy family circle. You’re going to see things you’ll never forget. If you want to back out, there’s still time.”

“Uh-uh. No discouraging my padawan,” Tony ordered. “He’s here now. He’s fine. I promise I’ll do better with this one.”

“You’re not convincing us, Tony,” Natasha said wryly.

“Look, I’ve got you guys to help out. He’s small. Probably easy to feed, low maintenance, pocket-sized for convenience... How hard can it be?”

Rogers quietly rolled his eyes, while Rhodey dragged a hand over his face. “Tones, we really should’ve talked about this....”

“About what?” Tony snapped. “He’s my padawan. I have a right to take on an apprentice. So maybe it’s not a cushy outpost. He’s gonna do great.”

“He’s going to get killed,” Rogers stated.

“I won’t,” Peter said quickly.

“He  _ won’t _ ,” Tony insisted, casting Peter a stern glance, “Because he’s going to stay on the ship. Until he gets his lightsaber.”

“Can’t I go with you?” Peter blurted out. “You said there was a training course for blasters.”

“Oh kung,” Clint growled, slapping a hand over his eyes. “You did not.”

“So what if I did?” Tony argued. “He’s thirteen. Twelve. He can look after himself.”

“How old are you, Son?” Rogers asked gently.

Clamping his lips shut, Peter flashed ten fingers and then one. Rhodey clanged a fist against the hull. “Kriff.”

“All right, operation ‘Protect the Kid’ in place?” Bruce opted. “Until Tony gets him a beskar suit and a proper weapon?”

“He should not be here,” Rogers said, shaking his head.

“Well, he is,” Tony established. “And he’s willing to step up and own it. I say give the kid a chance.”

“For the record, I’m not planning to drag any of my children into covert operations,” Clint piped in.

“Your offspring are studying diplomacy, he’s a Jedi,” Tony stated. “No comparison.”

“He’s definitely a liability,” Natasha declared.

“You know what? You started when you were four,” Tony accused. “I looked at your records. Barton, you were what — eight when the Jedi recruited you for your first mission?”

“We grew up during a war, Tony,” Bruce said, shifting uncomfortably. “Things were different.”

“No, see — that’s what everybody keeps saying! Where has the war gone?” Tony shouted. “For every free world, somebody is dying, and what are we doing? Protecting the kids? He’s going to fight out there sooner or later. Either we help him prepare now, or we stand there while the Separatists pick him off with the first shot. I’m done putting inexperienced children on the front lines!”

Awkward glances were exchanged all around as the A-Team focused on anything but the kid on the ship. As for Peter, he felt equal parts awe and trepidation. Jutting his chin out, he said, “I’m prepared to learn, Master Stark. I’ll be the best padawan on your team.”

Nervous laughter broke the silence. “No, you’ll be the only padawan,” Rhodey corrected. “I still think Tony should’ve consulted with us first, but were not going to leave you to fend for yourself. Just being part of the team isn’t going to win you any points, though. You’re going to have to train faster and harder than any of your peers. The minute you step out with the A-Team, your childhood is over.”

“It’s okay,” Peter said, swinging his feet in anticipation. “I’m not afraid.”

This time it was Tony who snorted. “Kid, you don’t even know what the word means.”

“Jarvis, stay with the kid. The adults are taking a looksie.”

That was two hours ago.

Peter swiveled idly in the copilots chair, sighing as Jarvis brought up another vocabulary chart. “Is this normal for a mission?”

“Subterfuge is all about timing, Padawan Parker,” the protocol droid said. “It is not uncommon to wait up to sixteen hours for extraction.”

“Sixteen hours?” Peter exclaimed. “But what if something goes wrong? What if someone’s hurt? Isn't there something we can do?”

“Indeed, I have just the idea,” Jarvis said, tilting the datapad suggestively. “Why don’t we continue reviewing the basic verbal structure of Huttese. It is one of the most commonly shared languages in the galaxy. You’re practically crippled without it.”

“I don’t want to learn Huttese. I want to help!” Peter insisted. “I should be out there — _with my_ _master_.”

“You’ve been a padawan for a day,” Jarvis pointed out. “You’re hardly qualified to walk the upper streets unaccompanied, let alone strike out against an armed fortress.”

“An armed fortress,” Peter repeated. “I thought Melida/Daan was a colonized planet.”

“Do they teach you anything in school, I wonder?” Jarvis contemplated. “Melida/Daan had been caught up in a civil war for years. The only reason the Jedi are now involving a crack team is because a significant Republic senator has been compromised. Our obligation is to extract the target and leave unnoticed — quite the task, if you consider the team involved.”

“I can help,” Peter entreated. “Master Stark said I can fit into small spaces, and I can climb walls and shoot webs and....” He trailed off at Jarvis’s bemused look. “Oh. That was definitely need-to-know information. Maybe you could just forget you heard that.”

“Fascinating,” said the protocol droid. “Are they actually biologically engineered webs, or is that metaphorical for a net launcher or a grappling gun?”

“Uh... no, they’re... they’re real,” Peter mumbled, tugging his sleeves over the nearly imperceptible slits in his wrists.  _ Weirdo. Freak. Sithspawn. _ “No one’s really supposed to know.”

“Even if such knowledge might be an asset to future missions?” Jarvis posed.

“It’s not going to change anything if they keep me on the ship!” Peter argued. “I’m part of the A-Team now, right? When will they give me the chance to prove myself?”

“Twelve hours of an unofficial padawanship is hardly equivalent to a lifetime of training,” Jarvis said. “You will have your chance, Padawan Parker. Until then, might I suggest meditating on the virtues of patience and forbearance? It  _ is _ the Jedi Way.”

“Master Stark wasn’t kidding when he said you’d be my moral compass,” Peter grumbled, slouching back against the console and folding his arms.

“I’m only a droid,” Jarvis said. “You can thank my programmer.”

Fourteen hours. Peter toyed with lightsaber designs on the hologram table and picked through spare parts, wiring the skeleton of a basic cylinder. Jarvis explained the proponents of the ship and let him run piloting simulations until his eyes started burning. He dozed off while meditating and woke up to find a lumpy, lamp-shaped droid plopping a blanket into his lap.

“That’s Dum-E,” Jarvis introduced bemusedly. “One of Master Stark’s lesser known projects from his padawan days.”

“Hi, Dum-E,” Peter said, reaching up to stroke the droid’s eyepiece. The stalklike neck piece swiveled under his hand like a mooka begging for an ear scratch. “What was he like as a padawan?”

“Traditionally, droids are not trained as — ah, you mean Master Stark.” Jarvis inclined his head. “Rebellious, cantankerous, stubborn, and more brilliant than any Jedi in my memory banks.”

“So, kinda like me?” Peter said hopefully. “I mean, that’s what he wants, right? Someone who thinks outside of the code?”

“I believe Master Stark was referring to innovation, not insurgence,” Jarvis corrected. “And if you're plotting to vacate the ship by way of verbal distraction, I would firmly advise that you put any notions of solo espionage far from your mind.”

“Who, me?” Peter said, eyes darting around the ship. “Insurgence is the last thing on my mind. Sooo, how long’ve they been gone?”

“Fifteen hours and counting,” Jarvis said tonelessly. “You should continue to rest, Padawan Parker. Scans show you are operating on a minimum of three hours of sleep within a twenty-four hour period. You will collapse if you attempt any further katas. Also, historically, master-padawan teams are permitted a short probation period in which either party can annul the partnership, and you are not yet bonded.”

Peter froze mid-yawn, fear jolting through the fog in his head. “So... Master Stark could still send me back to the temple?”

“I wouldn’t assume so, but yes,” Jarvis answered somberly. “It is not a threat, Padawan Parker. Consider it a warning. Don’t run off.”

“Farthest... farthest thing from my mind,” Peter murmured, tugging on his sleeves. “I’ll be the best padawan, right? Sometimes you just gotta do as you’re told. Follow the code.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Jarvis echoed. “Shall we continue your lessons, then? Or would you like me to wake you when it’s time for extraction?”

“No, I’ll wait up here,” Peter insisted, settling back and pillowing his head on his upraised knees. “They’ll be back soon, won’t they? Everything... everything’s fine?”

“I’m sure it won’t be long now,” Jarvis reassured him.

He was wrong. Peter hadn’t dozed for an hour when the back of his neck started itching. He paced along the hall, rubbing the spot irritably, checking the communications hub every couple minutes. When the herald finally came, Jarvis’s voice was grim.

“You should prepare yourself, Padawan Parker. There were... complications.”

Complications like Bruce carrying Tony inside while a sharp-tongued woman was herded through the doors, blaster fire piercing the mist behind them.

“What happened?” Peter exclaimed, bounding up to meet them.

“Close the doors!” Bruce ordered. “Peter, strap yourself in!”

“But I want to help!”

_ “Now, Parker!” _

Rhodey lunged inside just behind Bruce, his lightsaber a flashing ring of deep blue, deflecting bolts even as the doors clanged shut. A stray blaster bolt pinged against the wall and zipped past Master Roger’s skull, ricocheting like a mad hornet until it slammed into the holochess nook. The rescued diplomat gave a startled shriek, tripping over a tangle of wires and equipment.

“This is exactly why I told you to leave the equipment!” Rhodes lectured.

“This isn’t just idle research. They’re raising child soldiers for their war!” the woman shouted. “If the senate doesn’t believe me it’ll be because you pulled me out too soon!”

“I understand your frustration, Senator Foster, but can we please discuss this later?” Bruce said, his voice rising to a leveled shout. “Clint, grab the med kit. Natasha, start removing Tony's armor. I want Steve on hand to hold him down.”

Peter edged closer, plastering himself to the wall, small and unnoticeable and very harmless. Nobody looked his way.

“Is he... is he going to be okay?” Senator Foster breathed out, her hands trembling as she set down a tangle of black boxes. “How can I help?”

“Stay there, Ma’am,” Master Rogers instructed, coaching Natasha to cut away melted patches of crimson and gold patterned leather armor. “We’ve got this handled.”

“Med kit,” Clint announced, hauling a grossly overstuffed bin into the hall. He zeroed in on Peter instantly and snapped his fingers at the copilot seat. “Buckle in. We’re not out of this yet.”

“Can’t I stay here?” Peter whispered. _ It’s my master. I should’ve been there with him. _

“There’s nothing you can do, Kid,” Bruce said with a beleaguered sigh. “Let the trained experts handle this. Until we’re back in Core space we’re liable to take a hit out of nowhere.”

“Don’t want you hitting your head,” Clint said with a forced smile, rapping his skull to emphasize.

“I can stick to the walls,” Peter said in a low voice. “I won’t lose my balance.”

Silence. The four Jedi exchanged shadowed looks before Bruce said, “I’m not going to try to understand that. Let’s get Tony strapped into the bunk. Kid, stay put. We’ll talk about this later.”

They left him alone with a sentient droid and a stranger. Useless. Wasting space. Peter scraped his boots against the floor, staring blandly at the flashing controls. His first mission and he didn’t even know where to find the bandages.

“Hey.” Perky brown eyes ducked into his space and a petite, dusty hand smoothed back his hair as the senator reassured him softly, “It’s going to be okay. I’ve worked with these guys. They always come through.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Peter wondered.

Sighing, the senator flopped down on the floor beside his chair, stretching out her legs. “Bacta. A lot of bacta. Probably some cool scars. I’m Jane, by the way. Jane Foster.”

He answered her forced smile with a menial twitch. “Peter Parker.”

“Hi, Peter Parker,” Jane said, brown eyes dancing as she raised a holocam and flashed. “You’re going to be part of my next story. The A-Team finally takes on a padawan learner.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Foster,” Jarvis said, casting her a look of utter killjoy. “Might I remind you that the Jedi are permitted to wipe any devices that might compromise their mission.”

“It’s going to get out anyways,” Jane argued. “Peter’s the first padawan any Grey Jedi has taken since Quentin left the Order.”

“There were other padawans?” Peter interjected.

“Hardly worth mentioning, and kindly refrain from calling them “Grey Jedi,” Miss Foster,” Jarvis said. “They are an Elite Task Force, not a fairytale army.”

“Legends are just storybooks come to life,” Jane said. She tucked the holocam in her cloak pocket, smoothing down the bulge. “I demand an audience with Master Goose when we land. Someone needs to answer for pulling me early.”

“I’m sure Master Goose will lend you a willing ear,” Jarvis said amicably. “But I might hide your evidence in a more secure area. He tends to snatch up potential threats.”

Rolling her eyes, Jane dug out the holocam and jammed it under Peter’s chair. “I’m coming back for that.”

“I assumed as much,” Jarvis said.

Brown eyes darted. “And I still think he’s sweet and fluffy.”

The protocol droid chuckled. “He certainly is fluffy.”

For all their voluminous robes and “rest in the Force” vibes, healers moved fast. Tony was swept onto a hover-stretcher and whipped into the Halls of Healing, while the rest of the team was herded to the council room with the senator for debrief. Peter himself was plonked onto a bunk while Healer Shuri assailed him with a scanner.

“Your mineral levels are incredibly low,” she said, tutting over the readings. “Didn’t the masters feed you?”

“Uh.... I had some protein cubes? Jarvis said that's what Jedi eat on missions.” He wished he’d brought snacks, but then again he probably would’ve thrown up at the sight of blood and gravel mixing into....

Oh  _ kriff _ , there was a hole in his master’s shoulder and he’d just sat there because  _ they told him to _ and what if that was the last time and there was  _ blood _ on the red and gold floor and who would clean it if Tony was gone maybe he’d never have another master because everyone would know Parker Luck got someone  _ killed _ he couldn’t even make his first mission without.....

A small hand rubbed between his shoulders, soothing pulses of the Force wrapping around him, and he heard Shuri mutter, “Ritual fasting does not give one permission to starve a child. I’m going to yell at those oafs the minute Master Fury releases them.”

“I’m not — it’s not — they didn’t....” He was pretty sure the grey clouds in his vision had nothing to do with a lack of food and sleep. “Is Master Stark going to be okay?”

“He is with the best healers. And now, you are going to drink a nutrient smoothie while I figure out how to replace those minerals. Then you’ll sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” Peter insisted, rubbing a sleeve over his eyes.

“After a mission with the Grey Jedi?” Shuri snorted. “Don’t lie to me; I can read my patients better than these scanners. You’re lucky you haven’t broken your face on the floor. Food, sleep, and then when you’re released you can pester Healer Cho about Master Stark — no arguments.”

“But what if Master Fury wants me to debrief —“

A finger jabbed in front of his nose, and he shut up. Shuri smiled. “Once you’re out of here you can chase after the masters all you like. Until then, you’re my problem. Now wait here while I fetch your smoothie.”

He didn’t remember drinking anything, or even laying his head down afterwards. One moment the dim lights of the ward were  _ too bright, too much _ , and in the next blink Ned was looming over him. Peter choked on a gasp and lunged upright. “WhuNewhaddayou....”

“Shhh!” Ned hissed, pushing him back down with an embarrassingly minimal effort. “You’re in the Halls of Healing. Shuri said I have to let you rest.”

“What’re you doing here?” Peter mumbled, bracing himself on his elbows and rubbing his eyes.

“Dude, you’ve been asleep for like a whole day!” Ned whispered. “I thought maybe you were dying but the healers said you were just exhausted and — how cool was it to fight with the A-Team? Did they give you a lightsaber? Were the battle droids AAD-4’s or B1-Series? Did they —”

“I... uh... actually wasn’t there,” Peter admitted, sitting up enough to hunch over his knees. “They made me stay on the ship.”

“That is so cool!” Ned breathed. “You were on  _ The Avenger! _ Does it run off Rhydonian fuel or is it reactor powered? Is Jarvis really a protocol droid? Everyone says he’s an Espirion, because droids can’t mimic facial expressions. Did you get to fly the ship? Do they have cargo holds for....” He lowered his voice to a breathless hiss, “Spice runs?”

“What? No!” Peter squawked. “Master Stark doesn’t run spice!”

“That’s so cool that you call him Master now,” Ned gushed. “I mean, we all call him Master Stark but now he’s like... _your master.”_

“Yeah....” Peter said faintly.  _ Unless the probation period is real and he gets tired of me hanging out in his ship _ . “My master....”

“Well, if it isn’t Pandemonium Parker!”

Ned groaned, glowering at Flash as the initiate sauntered past a roving medical droid. “I heard you crashed your first space mission,” Flash announced. “Was that before or after you fainted?”

“Leave him alone, Flash,” Ned snapped. “He fell unconscious. It’s not the same thing!”

“Yeah, I just walked in to find you drooling on the floor while Healer Shuri freaked out, cause you know, I volunteer here, but no big deal!” Flash sniggered. “I guess that makes you... Pallid Parker now.”

“You are such a jerk,” Ned said crossly.

“At least he’s creative,” Peter mumbled.

“Is it true you took down the A-Team with Parker Luck alone? ‘Cause that takes talent,” Flash considered. “You weren't even there for a day!”

“Peter was part of the mission because he was chosen by Master Stark!” Ned declared, jumping to his feet as though to challenge Flash to a duel on the spot.

Cold washed down Peter’s neck. No wait, he wasn’t ready to announce it yet — he didn’t even know if it was  _ real _ . “Ned... that wasn’t ....”

“.... Wow,” Flash said, eyes bugging wide. “Holy krayt! You wouldn’t believe this, but I’m a padawan, too! Master Goose offered to train me personally!”

“Wait, really?” Ned startled. Peter groaned.

Cackling, Flash tugged Ned’s hood over his head. “You really are a couple of losers. Hey Panglossian, let me see your braid! Aw, were they too busy before the mission to twine it for you?” 

“Shut up, Flash!” Peter growled, slinging himself off the bunk and fumbling to pull a robe over the shapeless patient uniform. 

“Watch your step — don’t want to faceplant the floor again,” Flash said. “Although when you suffer from panpygoptosis that’s pretty inevitable.”

“Yeah, well when you’re a pea-brained... pear-shaped... pachydermal pantomime yourself!” Ned fired back.

It was not worth the heroic effort to see Flash doubled over, gasping in reckless laughter. “Come on,” Peter urged, tugging Ned out of the wing. 

“Where does he come up with all these words?” Ned wondered, wrinkling his nose.

“He researches while the rest of the class is running drills,” Peter said shortly. “Probably why his Form II defense sucks.”

“So some people can’t be smart as well as good fighters?” Ned said, head tilting in contemplation. “Huh. Maybe you should challenge him to a duel, then. Public humiliation does wonders for the ego.”

“I’m not earning myself another detention,” Peter stated. Not this time. Not with ugly words of truth ringing in his ears. ‘ _ Did they forget to twine it for you...?’ _ No braid. No bond. No proof.

“Hey. Hey, Peter. It’s gonna be okay, right?” Ned said, tapping his arm. “I mean, I believe you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Peter said with a self-deprecating smile. “Next mission will be cooler.”

“My advice, look for a yellow crystal on Ilum,” Ned advised sagely. “Sentinels, special ops, covert affairs... I think it represents unwavering light? Ooh, I wonder if Master Stark has a yellow lightsaber? They say he never duels with the masters. Do you think you could sneak a peek at his lightsaber for me?”

“Yeah... I could probably do that,” Peter said with a soft chuckle.

“That would be so awesome!” Ned exclaimed. “And in return — I’ll show you the top secret bacta room.  _ Where Master Stark sleeps.” _

Which... turned out to be a lot less weird than it sounded.

“I’m not supposed to know about this place,” Ned whispered, leading Peter to an angled hall with high windows and soft panels of blue light, “But I got lost looking for the Pyre room and I got recruited into winding bandages, and then I accidentally bumped the door pad and I thought it led to the refresher —“

“You basically snooped until you found it,” Peter said.

“Or that,” Ned admitted with a casual shrug. “This is where they take the drama teams, though. It’s like a magic sauna, or a healing hot tub. They just stick people in these giant tubes in nothing but their underwear and it’s like —“

“Yeah, I know what a bacta tank is,” Peter said quickly. “And it’s really creepy when you describe it like that.”

“I just wonder how they keep the breathing apparatuses from sparking in the tank,” Ned mused. “I guess they moved Master Stark out, though. Nobody’s in here.” 

“Yup. Show’s over. Sorry kids, better luck next time. Not much to see anyways; rumor has it there’s such a thing as privacy curtains?”

They were dead. Soooo dead. Deader than a squashed paddy frog. 

“Master Stark!” Ned shrieked, whirling around and gripping his chest. “You — you’re okay! That’s great, who knew bacta really worked, I swear you were dying when they brought you here... you were listening in the whole time, weren’t you?”

“Oh, I heard everything,” Tony said, one eyebrow spiking in cold judgment. “Leeds, a word with my padawan in private. Don’t you have a supply closet to organize?”

“Yes, Master Stark, that is exactly what I was going to do,” Ned said, carefully edging away. He turned his back to the knight and mouthed at Peter,  _ ‘Padawan!’ _

“Good help is so hard to find these days,” Tony muttered as soon as the doors swished behind Ned. “All right, fess up. Why were you snooping around the gel tubs?”

“I — I wasn’t — you were — and then they — and I wasn’t allowed to visit —“ Peter shook his head dazedly, trying to narrow a catastrophic memory into comprehensible syllables.  _ You were shot, maybe dying, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it! _ Blood on the bronzium floor, Master Banner yelling for the med kit, waiting, wondering, doing nothing while his own master needed help....

“Hey. Back to Coruscant, Spindle Legs. Deep breaths.” A hand on his shoulder dragged Peter back to warm blue lights and burbling tanks. “That’s it, Kiddo. Not the first time you’ll see a little action on the field.”

“I couldn’t do anything!” Peter choked. “You were...”  _ Dying. “...  _ Bleeding out and I didn’t know what to  _ do _ . How am I supposed to be your padawan if I’m not there when you need me?”

Surprise flashed through stress-lined eyes. “Oh, Kid. That’s definitely not how it works.” Sighing, Tony folded his arms, drumming his fingers in an agitated pattern. “I don’t  _ need _ an apprentice. I don’t need a partner, I don't need a lifeguard, and I’m certainly not expecting a padawan to pull me out of a firefight. Now you — growing up to be a decent, responsible adult with a penchant for the light? I think that’s on me.”

“But that’s not how it works!” Peter exclaimed.  _ Don’t say that, I need to — I can’t stand alone and watch from the sidelines! _ “Masters and padawans are supposed to look out for each other. That — that’s what sets us apart from the Sith. We learn from each other. We grow as one. It’s not just an apprenticeship, it’s the Force!”

That... might have been a slightly dramatic overstatement. Tony tilted his head ponderously, bandages peeking out from the folds of charcoal robes. “Is that so?”

“Okay, so... maybe the Force just has  _ something _ to do with it,” Peter acquiesced. 

“Maybe,” Tony quipped. His mouth twitched. “All right, I admit it — I’m not mastery material. I don’t get kids. I’m not going to tuck you in at night or start the morning with tea or remember your life day or take notice when you outgrow your boots. But....” he added more gently, “I will help you master your abilities — biological and Force-related. I will mentor you through tough jobs like the mission you just spectacularly fainted through. I will train you to be the Jedi the Force has chosen.” Snapping his fingers rapidly, he added as an afterthought, “And I’m putting you on a strict, high-protein diet. Starting now. Apparently spider babies need insane amounts of trace minerals to survive and you don’t eat mosquitos.”

“Master Stark!” Peter yelped.

“I did say I would help you master  _ all _ of your abilities, didn’t I?” Tony teased. “That includes tempering that high-speed metabolism, wall-climbing, tuning your sixth, seventh, maybe eighth senses, and — what was that one Jarvis mentioned? Internal web-shooters?”

“You were  _ not _ supposed to know about that,” Peter grumbled.

“Well, consider it known. Come on. Master Fluffers wants an audience before he ships us off again. I’m thinking Ilum is on the list. Did you look into those lightsaber modules on the ship?”

“You shouldn’t call Master Goose “Fluffers,’” Peter warned, jogging to keep up with an injured knight’s restless energy. “They say he swallowed eight Sith Lords in the Tombs of Ultron.”

“He’s still fluffy.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Regarding the Muppet reference for Bruce Banner, the Muppet Show has an entire episode devoted to a Star Wars mashup. No take backsies. 
> 
> Flash's Dictionary for Peter Parker Pseudonyms:
> 
> Pandemonium — wild and noisy disorder  
> Pallid — pale, wan  
> Panglossian — overly optimistic  
> Panpygoptosis — (condition) shortness of the legs
> 
> As for Ned's valiant attempt to keep up with the verbal sparring:
> 
> Pachydermal — scientific class for large, thick-skinned, hoofed mammals  
> Pantomime — a representation by way of an extravagant and exaggerated mime 
> 
> So actually, for pulling random words out of a hat he didn't do too badly for trying to insult Flash....
> 
> Again, reviews are always appreciated. It’s hard to fit writing time into my spare hours and a little feedback is the best motivator.


	3. Ilum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's just a little bit cold. Peter can handle it. (He has to.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of Chapter 3, I've changed the master references to first names for all of the A-Team. (Each chapter has been edited accordingly.) Hopefully that makes things flow better.

“You’re going to want to leave room for the insulator. Given any thought to the power source? It doesn’t have to be a kyber. Goose uses some kind of glowy blue stone. You know how a flerkin holds a lightsaber, don't you?”

“Ew, don't even start,” Peter protested, wrinkling his nose at the predictable answer. 

“Tentacles in the stomach,” Tony said. “Hey, no judgment calls. Every sentient to himself. But still, it doesn’t have to be a kyber crystal. Jedi are incorrigibly traditional, but you’re on the A-Team; don’t be afraid to try something different. Take Nat, for example: she got her hands on a Ghostfire crystal somehow. No color to show for it, but a soundless lightsaber? The skeletons on Korriban tremble. Actually, do me a favor and promise you’ll never sneak up on Nat. She might actually eat you.”

“But she said —“

“Don’t listen to what Nat says. She’s a spy. She thrives on the blood of infants and small hamsters.”

“Hamsters,” Peter deadpanned.

“Everyone has their preference.” Tony shrugged. “Toggle that coil; you’ll drain power if the couplings are uneven.”

“What kind of lightsaber do you have?” Peter posed innocently. 

He half expected a raised eyebrow, or a sardonic rebuke about questioning the ways of his elders, but Tony merely flipped out a squat cylinder and extended the ends into a narrow, red and gold banded rod. “What, this old thing?”

Peter gaped.

“Compact for travel, and conveniently stowed for diplomatic functions,” Tony said, clapping the hilt into a hologram-sized band before flipping it back into shape, “Every necessary component is fixed in the core, with a collapsible outer shell. And yet....”

Purple light slammed into existence and Peter cleared three feet.

“.... It’s fully functional,” Tony concluded. He glanced up and both eyebrows flew high. “I guess we’ve cleared that rumor.”

“Huh? Wait, no,” Peter said, plucking his feet from the wall and planting them firmly on the floor. “That’s just a Force trick. You know, I was watching Master Danvers the other day and she uses the ceiling for a springboard so it’s not really a big deal, I just didn’t move as quickly as she did and —“

“Fury’s right, you’re a horrible liar.” Waggling the lightsaber in Peter’s direction, Tony warned, “You know what lying is? Of the Sith, that’s what. Want to tell me about that little stunts act?”

“I wasn’t — I just lost my balance and it looked like....” Sighing, Peter leaned back against the wall and turned his head away, chewing the inside of his lip. “So maybe I can... stick to things. Kinda. I don’t know how.”

“Spider-fingers,” Tony said nonchalantly, rummaging through bits of glass stone, thin wires, couplings, and other useful rubbish. “Probably the Harch genes. Cut the innocent act, Kid. Your mom scaled sheer walls and strung up Zabraks. There’s no such thing as normal around here.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Peter posed softly, tugging his sleeves over his palms. 

“What, sharing my workspace with Rich and Mary’s kid?” Tony assumed, tossing a handful of focusing crystals onto the work bench. “You really do have an inferiority complex when it comes to kin.”

“Not that,” Peter said quickly. Although it was exactly that, and more. “The spider stuff....”

Tony looked up from the wire he was rethreading into Peter’s handiwork, frank cynicism echoed in both his expression and tone. “You can stick to walls, allegedly fabricate your own grappling wire, bust the nose of a kid twice your height, and stay awake for thirty-six hours without busting a brain vessel. Sounds genius to me.”

“Some people don’t agree,” Peter mumbled, edging closer to peer at the modifications to his lightsaber.

“Yeah,” Tony said, falling back into his work, “Well most of the galaxy is composed of narrow-minded lackeys. And I think we’ve pretty much established that I’m subpar with the friendly neighborhood sycophants.”

Flipping open holodiagrams of ancient light swords that tended to self-combust, Tony added contemplatively, “Any further side effects I should know about before we reach Ilum? Multi-cam irises, craving for dark crevices, fragile endoskeleton? Can spiders thermoregulate?”

“I’ve... never actually tried?” Peter considered.

“Of course,” Tony snorted. “Controlled environments are all the rage these days. Well, let me know if you get chilly. I think there’s a couple extra sweaters stuffed in Barton’s nook. His offspring keep sneaking stuff into the cargo hold so he’ll make a pit stop in Theeds to lighten the ship.” Something fond and sad momentarily smoothed the lines from his face. “Kids are such a nuisance.”

Sharp brown eyes jounced Peter’s attention again. “So what does a spiderling do? No clumsy diversion attempts, now. Part of the master-padawan shindig is knowing exactly what your battle buddy is capable of. People die out there for lack of knowledge.”

“Uh... I can out-eat an Elnacon,” Peter offered. “If that’s... important.”

Tony hummed noncommittally.

“And ... and you’ve seen me stick to walls, and I can sometimes see ultraviolet lights, but that kinda switches on and off....”

“Puberty,” Tony suggested. “Your body’s still figuring out what it wants to expose you to. Think you’ll need special glasses?”

“It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean,” Peter hedged. Because no. Not happening. He didn’t need a physical statement that his powers were beyond the humanoid spectrum.

“Hm. Well, the offer’s on the table,” Tony said, waving his hand expectantly. “Go on.”

“And then there’s.... this....” Carefully folding back his sleeve (one time of accidentally gluing the fabric to his wrist was enough), Peter stepped back and flicked his palm at the far wall. 

It was sticky. Slow to deteriorate. Gross. There were nursery guardians who still had nightmares about cobwebs draping from the ceiling, which gummed up countless cleaning droids before they figured out a solution to break down the threads. Peter remembered sitting on the floor as a master coached him to hold his hands still, don’t run, don’t hurt anybody. Then the day came when Master Fury decided the web stuff was out of control. The council sat in their grand chairs, looped by the shadows of a setting sun, and told him what he was. What _she_ was. He must control himself. Spider silk was a dark side trait. An abomination. He couldn’t give it to the twisted side of his nature.

So he didn’t. No more webs on the wall, except when the nightmares got bad, but he cleaned those up so nobody knew. He was light side. He was good. He wouldn’t betray his friends.

It still took three years without a “sticky episode” for the knights to assume he’d been surgically disarmed and was thereby safe to coordinate within a ten foot distance. 

So when the web slashed through the air and slapped the wall of Master Stark’s ship, Peter felt only shame.

Dark eyes widened as Tony leaned away instinctively. “Uh... okay, so Fury was kidding when he said you were special....”

“You don’t have to break it to me gently,” Peter said. Kriff, it looked awful. Tacky, wispy lines of biodegradable tether cemented to the wall, liable to jam any mechanism or panel that happened to stand in the way. “I know. It’s a sign of —“

“Is that more like krykna or whyyyschokk silk?” Tony wondered, poking the mess with a screwdriver. “Whyyyschokk is stronger, but krykna makes a great bandaid in a pinch... Why aren’t we utilizing this? I assume the healers had it analyzed. What’s your feature; antibacterial, paralytic, venom? You don’t spew acid webs, I hope. This ship just got a new paint job.”

“It’s not — I’m not — no, it isn’t acid,” Peter said, disgruntled by the sheer concept. “What kind of spiders do you guys run into?”

“Just your everyday, run of the mill, eat-your-face arachnids,” Tony hummed, cautiously snagging a piece of webbing between two fingers.

“That is... that’s disgusting,” Peter grumbled, folding his arms tightly around himself. “You do realize that came out of my body.”

“So does fur, and yet we snuggle puppies.” Tony grimaced, stretching his fingers in vain. “Admittedly, sweat, mucus — gross —but those are medically proven biohazards. No one complains when Goose pulls a tea kettle out of his stomach.”

“It’s not the same,” Peter said. “He’s a Jedi Master. He can lift an assault tank and swallow Nightbrothers and use twelve lightsabers —“

“Everybody starts somewhere,” Tony grunted, jabbing at his webbed fingers with the screwdriver. “Hey Dummy, fetch the engine grease.”

“That — that’s not going to come off,” Peter said, tugging Dum-E away from the wall before the curious droid could stick its head into the web. “It’s going to be hours before it’s water soluble.”

“All right, that puts it above Wyyyschokk for durability,” Tony determined, spewing an oath when the screwdriver melded to the greying net. “Which leads me once again to the question: why haven’t the Jedi exploited this by now? You realize how many tanks would self-combust with a little sticky gunk in their engines?”

“It’s not like that!” Peter said, looking on with horror as Tony edged a vibroblade over the strands. Nervously he stroked Dum-E’s lens, tempering the droid’s excitable attempts to scan the new substance on the ship. “It’s not a weapon, or a ... a tool, like a hydrospanmer or a blaster. This stuff is bad.” Sith bad. The stuff of nightmares.

“It’s not bad. You just have bad teachers,” Tony said, casually flipping out his lighsaber and hovering it over the tangle. Silk sizzled into gooey pudding as the smell of scorched tar filled the ship. “How does this come off?”

“It doesn’t,” Peter said exasperatedly. “I tried to warn you; it needs a solution. They didn’t keep ... I don’t normally have to use it... just sometimes...”

When he woke up terrified, shadows in the room and laughter in his head, and his hands shot out of their own accord as the _thing_ inside tried to compensate for his lack of trust in the Force.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

There was no peace, when one was always trying to hide. Peter tucked his arms around Dum-E’s hull, hiding his shaking hands.

“FRIDAY, hack the Temple databanks. Get the kid’s cleaning solution,” Tony said, finally melting enough webbing to leave his fingers tacky but web-free. “And tell Jarvis to bring a gallon of the stuff once he finishes schooling the mini-minions in basic binary.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled, ducking his head away from the hideous wall hanging. _Abomination. Dark offspring. Blood hunter._

“I’m going to peg this as mildly inconvenient,” Tony decided, rubbing his gunky fingers in consternation. “There must be a way to utilize it, preferably without ‘sabering everything it touches.” Snapping his fingers, he directed at Peter, “Gauntlets. Natasha’s got those nasty poison-stabby things. We could rig something to combine your webs with the solution; keep it sticky, but more manageable. If we can control the projection and concentration, pinpoint the trajectories, create a tether deployment... think you could bring your web skills to the next mission?”

Holy krayt. “You’re not going to kick me out, or — or drop me off at the temple?” Peter said, his head buzzing as Tony flipped away the holographic lightsaber diagrams and started dabbling with a Mandalorian wrist launcher design. 

“First of all, those are one and the same thing, and second, I’m not giving back my padawan,” Tony established. “The council had their chance. They don’t want their spider, they got nothing to haggle when they ask to borrow my team. I’m thinking a basic launcher for starters. Practice your spring boarding and snaring and then we can move up to the instant kill mode.”

“Killing is definitely of the dark side,” Peter said instinctively. His scandal melted away into a nervous huff. “That was a joke, right?”

“Sure, Pete,” Tony said, toggling through accessories that definitely looked like mini rocket launchers. He sighed reluctantly, dark eyes fixated on the gauntlet designs, and flipped back to the lightsaber hologram. “But first things first. We’re less than sixteen parsecs away from Ilum. Finish your lightsaber, Kid.”

* * *

  
“You still need an upgrade. Seriously, it’s your _lightsaber_. Ever had the 'this weapon is your life' lecture?”

“It’s my first one,” Peter argued uncertainly, clutching the hilt to his chest. The chromium was light in his hands, narrow in the handle for a flexible grip, tapering into a curved prong for a unique flair. (It looked like a claw, now that he thought about it. Maybe not the best choice of ‘saber designs for a Harch descendant.) The cobalt streaks zig-zagging across the cylinder like unfinished webs were Tony's idea.

“It’ll look great with your blue crystal,” Tony had said when Peter hedged over the color addition. “You’re definitely a blue. Reckless, driven to heroics, brassy — can’t get any more light side than that. Come back with a sapphire pontite and they’ll never question your ethics again.” 

“I thought... maybe mine would look like yours,” Peter had posed. Masters and padawans were supposed to share similar traits in one way or another. Maybe with a purple lightsaber he would finally fit in.

“Passion, aggression, wavering between the dark and light?” Tony translated ruthlessly. “Is that the message you want to get across? The crystal chooses the Jedi. It’s not just a color perk, it’s an expression of the living Force. Trust me — you’re a blue.”

Trailing a finger down the jagged lines on his ‘saber hilt, Peter now wondered what it would mean if Tony was right. If the crystal chose the Jedi... then what if he wasn’t chosen at all? He could see it clearly: the first padawan to come back without a proper blade. If it could happen to anyone, Parker Luck would ensure it.

“Lighten up, Kiddo,” Tony said, nudging his shoulder. “Ship’s landed. Start thinking happy Jedi thoughts. The sooner we get out of the ice caves, the better.”

_The Avenger’s_ doors slashed open and cold slammed inside the ship. White craigs blurred under a mist of tiny, pelting snowflakes. Frost already coated the landing gear, glazing the ship's scarlet finish. Puffing out a crystalized breath, Peter huddled into his cloak, tremors instantly locking his arms and legs.

“If you can’t thermoregulate, speak now or forever hold your peace,” Tony stated. He looked down sharply at Peter and frowned. “We can find another planet. Jedha has a small mining sector for crystals—“

“No, I can do this!” Peter exclaimed, forcing his arms to his sides and managing a shaky grin. “It’s not that cold.” _Please, I can do this. I’m just as good as everyone else._

“Your call, Spidey.” Tony conceded with a shrug, leading the way down the ramp. “Don’t start whining if you get frostbite. Uh-uh! Dummy, I told you to stay on the ship!”

Morosely the droid rolled back across the threshold, wheels squeaking with a thin layer of slush.

“Seriously,” Tony continued, remotely retracting the ramp and locking the mischievous droid inside, “If the gloves don't work, tuck your hands in your armpits. Much better insulation.”

“Thanks....?” Peter said. His feet already felt like blocks of wood. Maybe the caves would be warmer.

“One thing you gotta know,” Tony warned, flipping Peter’s hood over his head, “The crystals — they meddle with your mind. This isn’t just a chilly field trip. Your first lightsaber is your ultimate trial into padawanship. Both the dark and the light congregate here, testing your mettle.”

“Are there dark crystals here?” Peter wondered. That would be just his luck, to fall across one.

Tony gave him an odd, disquieting look. “Not unless you want them to be.”

He looked so stern — almost disappointed — that Peter quickly tried to turn the subject. “So I just go in, find the crystal, and that’s it? I’m officially a Jedi?”

“Not that simple,” Tony said, falling back into calculations mode. “You’re going to see things that aren’t there. Visions of your fears, or the future. That’s the padawan trial. Don’t fight it. Find yourself within the visions. Whatever you make of yourself today decides your path.”

“What did you see when you were here?” Peter wondered.

Steps slowing, as though he debated an honest reply, Tony answered at last, “My former master. Something happened; my fault. It turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

It wasn’t something he was supposed to hear. A master’s tragedy was private; his personal crucible from which he would rise to protect the next generation. “What happened?” Peter asked softly.

“Uh... ambush,” Tony said stiffly. “Tried a solo op against my master’s orders. Which you are never emulating, unless you want to cut your apprenticeship real short.”

“No, I — I would never disobey your orders,” Peter stammered. Kriff, Jarvis was right. He was one step away from getting shunted back onto the loser’s platform of unsuitable padawans.

“Uh-huh. Good kid.” Tony absently patted his shoulder, dark eyes assessing the doorway ahead. “You know how this thing opens?”

Craning his neck to see the crest of double doors built into the cliff face, Peter squinted at the orb cut into the surface and nodded. “It’s... uh... the first part of the test?” he recalled from Master Peggy’s lessons on the Living Force. “A master and padawan team can open it together.”

“Right on it,” Tony said. “Two bonds in the Force operating as one mind.” His face twisted in discomfit. “Remind me to fix that bond when we get back to the ship. Probably would be useful in the future.... For now, just concentrate on telling the door to open.”

“Which door?” Peter asked. He received a perturbed look for his troubles, and an antsy wave at the barrier as though to say, _‘Just pick one!’_

_Having an actual bond in the Force must be so much easier for Jedi,_ Peter thought, sighing quietly as he focused on the right-hand door. Would he and Master Stark be instinctively intuitive to one another one day, or could they even share a conversation without saying a word?

“I would’ve chosen the left myself,” Tony said, shattering the ponderous moment. “Everyone goes for the right side. Start gearing your mind for the unanticipated; might save your life someday.”

“Oh. Okay....” Peter said. He closed his eyes, hand outstretched, scoping for the space where stone and air resisted. Surely it only needed a little nudge...

He nibbled his lip nervously when the doors refused to budge.

“Ease up. You’re concentrating too hard,” Tony instructed, batting down Peter’s hand. “You don’t have to be one with the door. It’s just a piece of fancy rock. You’ve heard that everything lives and abides in the Force? Jargon. The Force is a tool — use it.”

“But Master Coulson said —“

“Master Coulson shot a Nightbrother with a sonic blaster because he was too cheap for a lightsaber duel. Are you really going to argue with your master on your first mission?” 

Peter didn’t have to say it. Tony cringed and inclined his head. “Okay, second mission. First off-terrain experience. Admittedly, Melida/Daan wasn’t much of a field trip. Just open the karking door.”

Sighing, Peter stretched out his hand again. Tony rolled his eyes, sidestepped, and mimicked his stance. “What is this, catch? Did they teach you to do anything without props?”

“You said to —“

“I _said_ , the Force is a tool. You don’t point and shoot. You utilize it.” Raking a gloved hand through his hair, Tony grumbled, “First mission and it’s already turning into a drama show. You know what, just do your thing. Let’s get this over with.”

Shame gripped Peter’s chest, sparking his eyes with heat and burying his excitement under something number than the cold. He splayed his fingers at his side, hand jerking as he fought the instincts of his training, and squeezed his eyes shut as he commanded, implored, _begged_ the doors to open.

Carved stone scraped roughly against ice, and the sense of failure ebbed slightly. Peter looked up with a faint smile, and Tony gave a sharp nod.

“Not bad... for a beginner.” He swept inside, barreling into the dark, and Peter tripped into a jog. The sharp nip of the wind vanished as stone closed in behind them. Panic closed around Peter’s throat.

“Master Stark, how will we get —"

“Patience is a virtue,” Tony muttered as though rehearsing a mantra, “And now I know that the Force is a sentient creature who specializes in irony and bad karma.” Casting Peter a droll look, he explained, “We’re not getting out... until you pass the test. You survive the ice chasms, pick out your shiny rock, find your way back with at least two brain cells intact, and then we can go home. It’s all on you now.”

Looking at the wide corridor shadowed by statues of Jedi of old, illuminated only by rough blocks of glittering crystal, Peter said softly, “You’re not coming?”

“Nope,” Tony said blandly. “That’s the clincher. This is your personal game show. You come back alive, we ship back to warmer climates. You get lost in yourself....”

And Tony would never get out. 

Peter swallowed. He knew that it took a master and padawan to enter the caves. He never thought about what it would mean if one of them didn’t make it back. “I thought we would do this together.”

Sympathy lightened Tony's eyes, but the pragmatism was no less harsh. “I can pass along my teachings, but I can’t bend your will. Who you are — what you will become — that’s all on you, Spidey. What you choose today will define your path as a Jedi. For better or worse, I’ll be waiting for you right here.”

“I won’t lose myself, Master Stark,” Peter insisted. “I’ll be really fast, I won’t — I won’t be tempted by the dark, I’ll just find my crystal and come right back —“

“Yeah, yeah I know. Shoo,” Tony said, waving him away with a fond glint in his eyes. “You got this.”

_No, I don’t. This is the worst place for me._ But he couldn’t fail. He wouldn’t. Not if it would trap Master Stark here forever. 

_Here lies the final legacy of Peter Parker — a murderer, just like his parents._

Dread crawled down Peter’s spine, a foreign chill against the unceasing cold. He backed away slowly, following the faint path trodden by thousands of apprentices, looking over his shoulder until Master Stark was a dark blur against the natural crystal light. The man waited patiently, an iron sentinel untouched by the elements, trusting that his padawan would return.

Peter wouldn’t let him down.

* * *

Younglings were raised on stories of the caves on Ilum. Glittering kyber crystals lining towers of ice and snow like a string of lights on Life Day, the warm swell of the Force bursting from each gem, peaceful solitude soothing the turmoil within as a padawan finally discovered the last link to their training. 

Of course, most padawans were guided on their journey. The bond to a master only faded with distance, ever present and guiding, reliable and secure. A padawan never had to fear losing the way for long. _If_ they shared a bond. Wrapping his arms around himself, feeling nothing but emptiness in a dismal, dimly lit corridor, Peter wondered if they had skipped the most crucial step in his training. The crystals lining the path seemed lifeless; cold and mocking, reflecting nothing but his own reflection. It felt as if the Force had stepped over the threshold of the cavern and skittered back, afraid of its own mirrors. 

_It’s just an impression. I’m looking at it wrong. This is normal._

Blowing into his hands, Peter stepped around a heap of loose shards speckled green and blue. The kybers were like glowrods — shining with false cheer, indifferent as the frost lacing the walls. There was no tranquility here; no trace of the Living Force. 

Or was he really that disconnected from the other Jedi?

“Palter Parker…. You didn’t really think you were going to be a padawan, right?”

Peter whipped around, stuttering foggy breaths as Flash’s smirk blinked in the corner of his vision. He spun on his heels, searching for the image, numb ankles tottering. “Who-who’s there?”

“Your mother was a murderer, your father a traitor….” Gawking, Peter staggered back as Master Peggy appeared, translucent in the crystals’ glow. She shook her head, aged eyes sorrowful. “What will you bring upon us?

“I didn’t — you’re just an illusion,” Peter said between chattering teeth. He hitched his cloak tighter around himself as the apparition vanished. “Don’t listen, don’t listen, it’s just a test….”

“That’s what he told me.” Warm blue eyes and a soft expression, a padawan braid trailing with smoke. The apprentice was tall, taller than Tony, and his robes sifted intermittently between khaki and grey. 

“Wh-Who are you?” Peter asked. 

“No saber?” the apprentice said gently. “No braid, no bond. I’ll bet he made you feel wanted, didn’t he? Made you think you could be part of his world.” Looking down as black swept over his tunic, the apprentice chuckled morosely. “It’s hard to partner with a one-man show.”

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, watching off-white flood into black before the colors melded into a crisped charcoal hue. “Who are you? What happened?”

The apparition grinned, predatory teeth spiking from his jaws. “Must be difficult, representing a dark planet. A monster shivering in the light….” Black swamped over his shoulders, stooping him down into a trembling, hunched mass of tarry limbs. White, slashing eyes blazed with glee as a long tongue smacked over sharp teeth. “Fight it, hide it, bury it deep; can you hide from the secrets you keep?”

Crying out, Peter scrambled back, fumbling with his lightsaber. Crimson blasted from the hilt, painting the apparition in blood. It snarled gleefully and pranced closer, trilling in Flash’s voice, “Panaphobic Parker, is he scared? Never chosen, saturated by the dark side.”

“I’m not a Sith!” Peter shouted, fumbling with the lightsaber switch. The crimson blade flickered for a brief moment, blazing despite his efforts to extinguish it. 

“Peter Paranoid Parker, always faltering on the path. Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate. One step towards the light, two steps into the abyss. Do you think you can defeat the darkness?”

The thing lunged, white teeth snapping just shy of Peter’s face as he ducked back, the red lightsaber burning in his hands. Scarlet light dwarfed the kyber crystals, washing them into pale bits of glass, and the cold wrapped around Peter’s core. He stumbled, lighsaber flailing in an uncoordinated slash, and black claws ghosted across his arm. 

“Run and hide, but it always finds you! You carry it within; how will you escape?”

“Get away from me!” Peter screamed, tripping over his feet as he scrambled backwards. “I won’t turn to the dark! I won’t be like them!”

The shadow loomed above him and he braced his hands over his head, lightsaber falling from limp fingers. The hollow hilt clattered and the red blade vanished, plunging the room back into gloom. A cold hand settled on Peter’s wrist.

“Oh, Peter,” the blue-eyed apprentice said softly. “You’re just like me.”

Peter sobbed, hurling himself away from the vision, blinking away red flashes as his frozen arms collapsed underneath him. _I’m going to die, I’m going to freeze in here and Master Stark will never get out, and they’ll all know it was because of me._

“The crystal is an expression of the Living Force….” 

Peter’s head lanced up at the sound of Tony’s voice. “M-Master S-S-Stark?”

“The crystal chooses the Jedi….”

Yellow light spilled from a hollow that Peter had overlooked. Warm and coaxing, like the flame of a hearth, inviting the wanderer to come inside from the rain. Peter dragged himself towards it, his teeth clattering and his arms shaking. He grasped at the golden light, fingers catch once — twice — before the kyber crystal fell into his hand. 

_I’m a Jedi,_ he thought, curling around the crystal as grey clouds swept away the voices in the cave. _Can’t send me back now… I’m good, I’m good, I won’t let you down… promise…._

* * *

Tony hated waiting. He didn’t remember taking this long to find his lightsaber crystal. It was just down the path, in fact. Nothing more than a brisk walk there and back. Everything was shiny, the walls were patterned with icy fronds, and fractured mirrors glittered in thousands of bright hues. He’d picked a crystal at random, cupping his hand around the one that seemed perfect and brilliant, not taking any thought as to what the colors might mean. It was just a tool. Something to power his lightsaber and get the whole training rig started. It was the add-ons that counted, after all. Focusing bits and copper wires and insulating compartments. The power crystal was the final right of passage.

Even the visions didn’t hold him back for long. His master’s face, wide-eyed in a soundless scream as a blaster bolt ripped through her stomach, the shriek of a child torn away from her protectors, a bounty hunter with a bubble head — just visions. Blips in the subconsciousness. A distraction from the final mission. No biggie. 

Pacing up and down the corridor, Tony wondered if he should’ve given the kid a map. Sure, there were a few blind spots where the walls fell away, but Peter was smart, and the crystals would light his path like miniature suns. No padawan had broken their neck since that one occasion five hundred years into legend, and that kid was definitely Sithy. Presumably. Maybe he was just Force-blind. 

Rubbing his hands, Tony looked into the passage, wondering if it was cheating to give Peter a little mental nudge. Just a prod, reminding him that regardless of the Force’s wonders, this was essentially a carbon freezing chamber and he didn’t pack a thermal heater in his cloak. 

Right. Force bond inactive. Why didn’t he take the time to establish it before?

“No big deal. Just wandering aimlessly, waiting for my padawan to stop ogling the fire rocks,” Tony grumbled, whipping into another linear trek. What was taking so long? Was this normal? Somewhere in the crevices of his formal training, he supposed the master was supposed to meditate and guide his padawan’s path. Quentin never needed help. Astute and uber-focused, he walked right in, grabbed his purply glow rock and sauntered out with the ease of a practiced master.

_And look where that got him_.

Tony was so kriffing _proud_ to share a kyber color with his padawan. Like they were really one and the same. If he’d done his research he might have realized the dangers of an ambitious crystal.

_Peter won’t be like that. He’s a good kid._

Breaking his pace mid-stride, Tony peered into the passage. How long did it take to choose a fancy rock?

The padawan had to find his own path, he reminded himself. The master would guide him, feed him knowledge and happy thoughts until he was shaped into a cheerful marionette, and then kick him off to share that ever-do-well attitude with the next generation. Tony could sit here patiently and will good things in the Force, but he couldn’t interfere with Peter’s initiation. 

Stamping his cold feet, Tony checked his chrono. Two hours creeping on three.

Dank Farrik, the kid was taking too long.

_He was shivering before we left the ship_ , Tony thought grimly. What if he was too cold; locked into a corner, numbed beyond sensible reasoning, unable to find his way back? Tony should've taken the kid to Jedha. Nice, balmy desert with sun-baked caves and stagnant puddles of monster slime. The last master-padawan team to undertake that journey fought back a nest of bloodthirsty lizards on their way back to the ship. Great bonding experience.

_He’s gotta be cold._ Urgent strides propelled Tony down the path, despite all protocol. He saw bluing fingers, a shivering jawline and a child too brave to admit a little chilliness. Two and a half hours in the heart of an ice block, alone with his own fears and doubts.

Pepper was right — he never should’ve taken on another kid.

Leaping strides stretched under an increasing bad feeling, until Tony was running and it wasn’t _fast enough._ He skidded into the widest arch of the cave, darkness pinching his senses, and raised a hand to shield his eyes as images flickered. 

Glinting blue eyes flashed into being first, followed by Quentin’s smug grin. “Thought you’d lose me that easily?”

“You’re not here,” Tony said brusquely, striding past the vision. 

“Am I?” Black robes clung to the mirage like sheets of crude oil. Tony didn’t need a light show to know that the ‘saber was red. “You left me for dead. You abandoned me to the dark, and now you think you can wash your hands of the stench?”

“Not my problem,” Tony said, planting a hand through the vision’s face. “He screwed up. Chose his own version of light. Can’t say I miss him.”

“Always cutting the wire.” Flinty eyes under harshly drawn brows, rigid shoulders and the pursed lips of disappointment. Tony turned his head away sharply as his father took Quentin’s place. “You think you can run away from your failures.”

“Not running. Rescuing,” Tony retorted. “And you’re just a mind trick. I’m not arguing with you.”

“Everything you love, you lose,” Howard Stark rebuked. “That’s why you won’t form the bond. You’ll push this one away until he’s nothing more than another shadow trailing in the path of your destruction.”

“Not listening,” Tony snapped.

“Wasn’t one child enough?” This time it was Steve, decked in pristine white robes, his normally compassionate gaze steeled in disdain. “Peter was a good kid. He could’ve been chosen by any master.”

“Could’ve — wasn’t,” Tony corrected. “I picked him. He’s mine. Shouldn’t you be schooling detention?”

“We’re not caregivers. We’re murderers,” Natasha said, materializing on the right. “We hunt down potential threats and slaughter them in their own camps.”

“That’s a great influence for a kid,” Steve scoffed. “He’ll learn from the best.”

“Your first kill wasn’t enough.” Tony staggered as the Ancient One appeared, her wise eyes gilt in sorrow, crimson spilling over creamy robes. “Will you never listen to the words of your elders?”

Swallowing the sudden dryness in his throat, Tony fumbled out, “She’s dead. Get out of my way.”

“You think you’re beyond the touch of evil.” Red eyes glowed in a silver helm as a cyborg’s arm clawed at the dust, dragging a sparking torso behind it. In the mist beyond, a child shrieked in terror. “The master of death pleads his cause, seeking to preserve his crumbling future.”

“Okay, what’s next — the loopy reindeer Night Bro?” Tony challenged, kicking the cyborg into a swirl of crystal dust. 

“Master Stark….” 

The plaintive, anxious voice snatched Tony’s breath away. He wouldn’t turn around. He wouldn’t.

“I don’t… I don’t feel so good….”

Against his will Tony looked over his shoulder, cold washing down his spine. Peter stumbled towards him, arms wrapped around his stomach, trusting him to catch him — and Tony staggered back, letting the apparition fall to its knees. _Just a vision. It’s not real._

“Master Stark, please. I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening….” Pleading brown eyes searched him, the question looming in brimming tears. _Why won’t you save me? Why won’t you comfort me?_

“You’re not real,” Tony whispered.

“Master Stark….” Crusted ash swarmed the boy, drifting away with the echoes of a cry in the Force. A light extinguished. Blood that would never be atoned for. A mark on his hands for eternity.

“It’s not real,” Tony reminded himself, dragging his hands over his face. The last echoes faded, and then he saw it. A crumpled form sheltered under a knobby hunk of blue rock. He looked so small. Arms and legs tucked in tight, his skin blanched to match the frost streaking up the hilt of his unfinished lightsaber. 

“Peter!” Tony exclaimed, darting forward and crouching down to shake the boy’s shoulder. No, he shouldn’t be this stiff. It hadn’t been that long. “Kid, come on, look at me. Trial’s over; we’re going home.”

Tightly wadded limbs were frozen in place. Tony thrust his hand under Peter’s nose, waiting for the warm puff of air.

Nothing.

“No, no, don’t do this to me,” he muttered, yanking off his cloak and bundling it around the rigid shoulders. “Come on, Spidey. You’re only an eighth Harch.” Could spiders freeze? He hadn’t researched. Why didn’t he tell Jarvis to check on it? Pulling the Force towards him, Tony searched for what his senses couldn’t detect. _Show me essence. Show me life._

Kriff, he couldn’t even reach into a bond to know if it was severed. He’d put it off, always finding something else more important to address before Ilum. As if it didn’t matter. As if he expected the kid to drop the puppy act and quit any time.

_“Everything you love, you lose….”_

“Not this one,” Tony swore, exhaling sharply when a spark fluttered in the child’s core. “Come on, Spiderling. You’re okay. You're going to be okay.” 

He tugged Peter off the frozen ground and gathered him into his lap, rubbing stiffened limbs and willing the Force into the flickering spirit. _Feel my spirit enter yours. Take my strength. Remember what it means to live._

“This is really going to look bad on my record,” Tony said gruffly, tucking the folds of Peter’s hood securely around his nose. “Master Fury probably won’t let me have another padawan, so I’d appreciate it if you’d… you know, not float off as a Force ghost just yet. I’m pretty sure this is just a test on my nerves. You’re a spider, spiders do what in the winter… Burrow?” _Curl up in a wad of eight limbs and die_ , the afterimages of frost snaps reminded him mercilessly. 

No. Not this kid. He was 0.875% natural Alderaanian. That had to count for something.

“Nap time’s over, Pete,” Tony cajoled, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, it’s way past your curfew.”

He had to get the kid back to the ship. Warm him up, run an emergency holo on hypothermia treatment, get him back to the temple where the proper healers could perform their magic. Easy-peasy. With a sealed door behind them that only a master-padawan team could unlock, and half the key zonked out in a frost slumber. 

“Now’s a really good time to start bugging me with questions,” Tony supplicated. He sighed, resting his chin on the downturned head. “Come on, come on….” What was a master supposed to do in a carbon chamber crisis?

_Wait._

Because that was the obvious answer, wasn’t it? Everything the masters had taught him: seek the Force; have patience; sit in a corner with his eyes closed until everything felt hunky-dory and the buzzing in his skull turned into a distant hum. 

Tony hated waiting.

What else could he could do? There was no escape route, no flammable material, nothing but cold stone and crystals and….

“All right, I am an idiot,” Tony huffed, shifting the kid so he could unhook his lightsaber. Fierce purple energy crackled and he plunged it into the stone beside them. The unformed kyber sizzled, smoldering and breaking away in molten chunks, radiating the heat of a small furnace. Smiling grimly, Tony called Peter’s unfinished lightsaber to his hand. He’d need to choose a crystal for the kid. Blue, of course. The spiderling was going to be a fabulous Jedi. Noble, heroic, peace fighter to the core. 

“It’s going to be fine, Peter,” he reassured, piecing apart the cylinder. “I can fix this. You’ll be toasty thawed before you know it.”

Peter sighed.

Dropping the half-disassembled lightsaber in shock, Tony pressed his fingers to the padawan's neck. Impossible. The heated rock wasn’t nearly enough to thwart hypothermia; not this quickly. The kid should warm up in increments, maybe regain consciousness in an hour, if they were lucky and if Tony wasn’t too late….

The still chest stuttered under one breath. Three. Tony started counting, refocused on rubbing limbs that slowly became pliant, schooling each inhale with one of his own as though he could prod the boy’s consciousness to take deeper breaths, to reach for the heat around him, to _awaken_...

Long lashes fluttered twice, and Peter opened his eyes.

* * *

He thought perhaps he was in a glass box. The delicate walls surrounding him would shatter under the lightest tap. He didn’t want to break anything. It was cold outside the box. He didn’t need to leave it just yet. Not when the crystal in his hands was so warm. It soaked into his skin, past bone and muscle and memory, and he tucked himself into that pocket of stillness until he couldn’t feel the cold at all. 

He was safe here. Preserved. Tucked away until the threat moved along.

_Wake up, little one._

The intrusive life force prodded his cocoon and Peter huddled into himself, brushing it away. _Not yet. Tired._ When the first raindrops melted the ice and the earthworms turned in the soil, then he could leave. 

_You’re safe. I’m here. I’ll guide you back._

In order to go back, he would’ve had to leave somewhere, but he was always _here_. Here was safe and warm, with sunlight cupped in his hands to stave back the dark. He didn’t have to go anywhere. 

_Please, little one. Come back to me._

Someone was lost. Alone and hurting and so afraid. The warmth in his palms spiked into a painful burn, the glow brightening until it burned his eyes. _No. I don’t want to. It’s not time yet._ The dark smelled of death and snow and long months of hunger. _Wake me when it’s spring._

_This is not who you are. You are mine. Breathe with me. Live with me. Come in out of the cold._

He didn’t understand. The cold was out there. Here, he could rest forever, untouched and unharmed until the air smelled of life and new beginnings. 

_Please, little one!_

The sun burned like a torch in his hands and he whined, recognizing a stronger pull than the one whispering outside. **_Get up, get up!_ ** the crystal compelled him. **_Seek, shield, deliver, advocate._ **

The warmth was stripped away, magenta bursts flickering into the dark. _I don’t want to go. Let me stay a little longer._

_I will save you, little one, if it takes all of my life force._

**_Shelter. Guide. Protect._ **

Peter groaned, gripping the kyber crystal tighter as the tatters of a blissful curtain fell away. Sensation returned as suddenly as the slap of water when Flash pushed him into the fountain. Cold. Sharp needles pinioning every inch of his skin. Heat glaring from a furnace of orange, purple and charred blue. Peter gasped and leaned away from the sight, fumbling to cling onto the tangle of soft fabric that radiated the soft comfort of _life_ and _protector_ and _another tomorrow_. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Tony whispered, clutching Peter to his chest. “Don’t go to sleep on me again. You’re going to be okay.”

“I f-f-found the c-crystal,” Peter murmured, cringing against the unwelcome light. “Did I p-pass?”

“Yeah. You passed. Flying colors. Hundred percent. Just don’t go back to sleep.” 

The hand rubbing through his hair was hypnotic, and Peter gave a longing sigh, unlacing his fingers to release the kyber crystal’s brightness. “Ned s-said it’d be yellow….”

The hand paused for a moment before Tony huffed. “Defying all expectations.”

“M’I a padawan now?” Peter wondered. “You won’t send me back?”

The stroking stopped, dismay billowing around the dark space. “Yeah, Kiddo. You’re officially a padawan. No one’s sending you back to the temple alone.”

Peter smiled and closed his eyes, letting the soft hand lull him back into a doze. _Safe. Warm. Master Stark._ He could rest for now.

* * *

They couldn’t open the door until Peter was able to stand up long enough to focus. He didn’t know how much time passed, only that Tony kept forcing ration cubes on him between blackouts, walking him up and down the caves periodically, and there were six hunks of burned-out crystal before he could finally lean against the man long enough to prod his side of the doors open. 

“Okay, we are _done_ with missions until we figure out your biology,” Tony lectured, yanking garishly woven blankets out of cupboards and puddling them around Peter until he felt like he was drowning in a furry cocoon. “What was that, hibernation? Sugar crash? Eighteen hours, Parker. Do you realize what that did to my heart? I’ve survived more catastrophic missions than any of your ancestors combined, and that little stunt nearly did me in. These little “I can take the cold” shenanigans stop here. You’re not setting foot on another ice planet until you have a thermal suit and a tank’s worth of hot chocolate on standby.”

“I didn’t know I was —"

“Stubborn, obnoxious, anti-snow?” Tony snorted. “You know they said I would be the worst master for a kid. Said I should focus on the tweeners during the transition period to their second masters. Apparently I’m volatile, self-obsessed, don’t play well with others...”

“You’re not like that,” Peter argued in dismay, swinging his legs over the medical bunk before Tony pushed him back down with one finger. “I remember your voice in the dark. It was like a....” He splayed his hands, trying to describe the pull inside that stripped away the languidness of his shelter and prodded him back to reality. “Like you were there with me, calling me —"

“It wasn’t a bond,” Tony said sharply, shadow darkening his eyes. “That was just me reaching out to you in the Force. The bond between a master and padawan goes far beyond that.”

He sighed heavily and dropped to one knee, crouching eye level with Peter. “You know the bond is a one-way trip. The only way to get rid of it is to sever it — and believe me, there’s nothing worse than a master and padawan sheering away from each other. Even when you’re old and baggy under the eyes with a dozen graduated apprentices, you’ll still be stuck with the bond whispering in the back of your mind. It’s not just a tutoring link; it’s a permanent connection between two Jedi.”

“That’s the last step, isn’t it?” Peter whispered with yearning. “I’ll finally be your padawan?”

Guilt bled into dark eyes as Tony reached out and touched his fingers to Peter’s temple. “You were already my padawan, Kiddo.” 

The Force tickled Peter’s mind, a gentle prod against his shields, tainted with the sense of another being. The cool, smooth durability like polished chromium under his fingertips; flashes of gold and red sparks; the sharp scent of burning crystal and something foreign, green and alive. 

“If this is what you want, you just have to reach back to me,” Tony coached. “The bond goes two ways.”

Eagerly Peter grasped at the Force prod, reaching out in kind. He wondered what Tony would sense. The malevolence or mystery of a Harch brain, or the wonder and enthusiasm he felt when Master Stark first mentioned a padawan braid? Would he sense peace or impending devastation; intuitiveness or despair?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tony pulled away and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Wow, that’s... not breaking off any time soon, is it? Harch sticky problems really run in your side of the family.”

“What went wrong?” Peter asked, disgrace crashing into his tentative hope. He messed it up. He was too dark — he couldn’t even bond properly with a master. 

“No, you’re not wrong.” Blinking back into focus, Tony smiled wryly and ruffled his hair. “You just have a very clingy Force essence. I doubt I could ditch you if I tried.”

“Oh.” That sounded... bad. Jedi were supposed to find solidarity in the eternal Force, not in the confidence of fragile sentients. “I guess I still have to learn to let go of things.”

“It’s a sensory trait, not a character flaw,” Tony clarified. “Everybody has their own Force signature. What do you get from mine?”

“Uh... durasteel, and ... fluffy blankets,” Peter considered. He saw Tony’s eyebrows fly high and stammered, “I mean, it’s more like —”

“I’m a cuddly droideka who shields too much and will mercilessly slaughter anyone who touches my team,” Tony said frankly. “Muppet already clarified that for me.”

“That’s a kind of particular analogy,” Peter said with a tentative smile.

“And you’re a sappy mooka who flops from one mud puddle of doubt to another,” Tony quipped. “You realize what this means, don’t you? It means no secrets. No more hiding the fact that you’re cold or frazzled about your binary quiz or antsy enough to pick a fight. Utter translucency. For life.”

Peter prodded the warm glow settled in his brain, picking up tendrils of pride and satisfaction, uncertainty and dread for an unknown future. The secret thoughts of Tony Stark. “I think I can handle it.”

Scoffing, Tony flicked his ear lightly and lurched to his feet, messing with the temperature controls above the medical bunk. “You realize you’re brimming with ambiguity every time you say that. I warned you, I can sense everything now. There’s no take-backsies in a Force bond. Your life of solitude is over.”

It wasn’t such a bad thought; not when loneliness morphed into solidarity and the last vestiges of doubt flickered into belonging. Tony could hardly dump him on another master now. Some Jedi said it hurt less to lose a limb than to feel a bond snuff out in the Force. 

There was still one more step to make it official, however.

”This means I get a braid now, right?” He’d love to see Flash’s face when he saw the braid and a lightsaber proving Peter's apprenticeship.

“Spite and vindictiveness is of the dark side,” Tony announced. “... But yes. Once we get back to the temple. There’s a little ceremony that accompanies it. All the council members sit around and look stuffy and grim while we slip a bead on a synthetic extension. Really moving; you won’t believe what you’ve missed.”

Dropping the sarcasm, he jabbed a finger in Peter’s direction and added, “And I am putting a tracker in your bead. It’s going to be blue — no arguments. I still think you fell across the wrong kyber crystal.”

Running his fingers along the finished hilt, where the warm burst of sunlight now eagerly waited for the first call to serve and protect, Peter grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flash’s Dictionary for Peter Parker Pseudonyms: 
> 
> Palter - to trifle in talk; to use trickery; to equivocate
> 
> Panaphobic - melancholic with ungrounded fears


	4. Alderaan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the A-Team has connections outside of the Jedi temple. Peter gains two of his own.

“I assure you, Alderaan has a completely stable, spider-friendly environment. Besides, I promised you grass. I’m bringing another plant back with me to the temple; Nat keeps swiping mine. If you ever miss this, sneak into her quarters. She has a veritable jungle stashed away in there.”

“Don’t go into Nat’s quarters, she’ll probably eat you,” Peter guessed, rolling his eyes.

“What can I say, hunter’s choice,” Tony answered. “Her quarters, her lunch pick. But we are bringing home a plant.”

Peter toggled through holopics of the planet, trying familiarize himself with the mission before he froze into a spideypop (as Tony had ineloquently termed it). Although this wasn’t an actual mission. More like a field trip, or a byproduct of Tony’s interminable boredom, as Master Danvers commented when she saw Peter running to the hangar early that morning.

Contrary to the icy swirl over Ilum, or the clusters of artificial lighting that monopolized Coruscant, Alderaan was uniquely marbled, land masses dropping off into oceans wider than the northern sector of the Galactic City. There was so much... blue.

“Where are all the cities?” Peter wondered. “Is Alderaan a tribal culture?”

Tony choked on a Reythan cracker. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear you say that,” he said around a mouthful of crumbs. Nudging into Peter’s space, he toggled with the screen and pulled up a handful of holopics depicting capital buildings, sloping homesteads, and a small palace. He shook his head and muttered, “Tribal culture....”

“That’s all real?” Peter said, riveted by spreads of forest and pastureland. Useless waste of land, he’d heard such tracts described by some of the merchants idling near the temple. There were holos of all the planets in the temple libraries — green, city, ice, sand, and lava terrain alike — but those were just pictures. This mission, seeing the stories from the rim travelers first-hand, this was actually happening.

“Yup. One hundred percent natural life,” Tony said, crunching obnoxiously as he swiped through the holopics. Waterfalls, graceful bridges, herds of animals lolling on green fields. “Imagine the Room of a Thousand fountains without the duracrete supports.” Crinkling his nose, he commented, “Carol keeps trying to put a garden in there. But then we’re talking implanting an artificial atmosphere, bringing in soil, filtering out carbon particles... worst pollution levels in the galaxy, Coruscant. You’ll love how the air smells on a clean planet.”

“So what’s the mission?” Peter asked, zooming in on a picture of feathery fauna. “Are we picking up another diplomat?”

“Um... no,” Tony hedged, brushing crumbs off his fingers. “Just putting in a word with some old contacts. You’ve never met them. Officially. Figured it was time to see some faces outside the temple.”

“Is it more of the A-Team?” The small congregation of unspoken Grey Jedi seemed to increase with every galactic skirmish, and from what Peter had learned, not everyone stayed in the temple.

“Nope. Definitely not Jedi. Very normal, non-Forcey type of folk. You’ll like them — if not we can always hightail it back to the ship. I’ve got a bucket list of excuses for social binds.”

Tony seemed nervous, even more so than when they stepped into the crystal caves. Peter flicked off the holo, watching the man pace the narrow corridor, tampering with the autopilot, tinkering with coils and circuits strewn across the work bench, feinting a nudge at Dum-E as if to remind the droid that he might actually boot him across the hall one day.

“You were born on Alderaan?” Peter blurted out. It sort of made sense. The luxury of The Avenger indicated a more endowed lifestyle than was acceptable for a Jedi. Purloining plant life was discussed nonchalantly, indicating that Tony had a stake in the land. He had non-Force connected acquaintances who spiraled him into a nervous panic.

Three dumbstruck blinks followed Peter‘s deduction. Shaking his head briskly, Tony denounced, “Uh, no. Not me. I’m ninety-nine percent Yavinian, thank you very much. This here is... a special trip.”

He tapped a servomotor on the work bench, losing himself in a quandary deeper than the memory banks in the temple archives. Peter shifted, waiting for a hint of his master’s past.

“Boss, we’re entering the atmosphere,” FRIDAY chimed in from the cockpit.

Moment shattered.

“Time to go, Spidey,” Tony announced, pitching the servomotor at Dum-E’s head. It bounced against the wall three feet shy and rolled into the impromptu medical suite, with the little droid wheeling after it in ecstatic pursuit. Snatching up Peter’s cloak, Tony tossed it to him and said, “Suit up. Got your ‘saber? I didn’t make the effort to pin a padawan braid just to have you show up looking like a Mos Espan refugee.”

Whatever this was, formal dress code was required. Peter yanked on his cloak and brushed down his tunic, hastily combing his fingers through his hair. Tony gestured impatiently from the doorway.

“What is this, Mon Calamari Ballet? It’s just a meet and greet, Kid. You don’t have to impress the chancellor or the planetary deity.” He briskly smoothed down Peter’s hair and straightened his cloak. “Wait here. I just need to check in with the natives. I may have skimmed over the fact that extra company would be in attendance.”

_Are you sure we’re not meeting your parents?_ Peter was dying to ask. He bit down the question and nodded, wrapping his cloak around himself as a stiff breeze flapped into the ship. “Sure. It’s fine. You just... do your thing.”

“Right. You’ll stay here,” Tony insured, detangling the thin braid that always seemed to snag in Peter’s hood. “I’ll be just a moment. Wait for me.”

“I’ll wait,” Peter promised.

“Here,” Tony insisted, backing away skeptically. “No peeking. Trust me, I’ll know.” He tapped his temple indicatively, as if the bond would _really_ tell him if Peter snuck a glimpse on one of the ship holocams.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Peter shrugged.

“FRIDAY, make sure the Spiderling stays on the ship until I send for him,” Tony called. He nearly missed the ramp and flailed, straightening with a disgruntled glare. “I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, Master Stark.” This wasn’t the weirdest thing to happen on _The Avenger_ , although it nearly topped the giant stuffed lepi that Tony smuggled onto the ship before he vanished on a solo op for two days.

Tony cast him one more stern look before he fluffed his robes and sauntered down the ramp, announcing in an airy tone, “If it isn’t my favorite entrancing aun —“

“Is it Peter?” a feminine voice cried out.

“What happened?” demanded the deeper, less frantic accompaniment.

Tony sounded taken aback. “I never said that —“

“You patch us through the holovids once an eon. You never show up unless something happened,” the woman exclaimed. “Is he hurt? How bad is it?”

“Force, he’s not....?”

“No!” Tony blustered. “Peter’s fine. Trust me, I’m not here to bring you the ashes from his pyre.”

“Just because we gave him to your bloody order doesn’t mean we don’t have a right to know — !”

“May,” the deeper voice interrupted soothingly.

“ — I’ve honored every karking rule about severing familial attachments but you know what —“

“May, maybe we should let him —“

“That’s still my nephew, Tony Stark! I gave up his childhood so that the Jedi could offer him a better life but I am not going to stand here wondering if —“

“Don’t freak out, he’s on the ship,” Tony said calmly.

The one called May gave a suffocated cry.

“... On the ship,” the other one said cautiously. “As in...?”

“Oh Force, you brought him here?” May croaked. “For an Alderaanian ceremony? Why didn’t you tell us? You couldn’t even send a binary code?”

“Surprise?” Tony said sheepishly.

A piercing cry was smothered by pressing hands. “I couldn’t even say goodbye,” May sobbed. “I’ve never spoken to him — not once — how is this _fair?_ You said the Jedi would heal him, not bring him back in a —“

“Whoah, now,” Tony said hastily, all bravado dropping from his voice. “Nobody said Peter was gone.”

“You said —“

“I said he was _here_ ,” Tony said. “On this ship. Not in a fancy ceremonial cube. Peter, you want to meet the fam?”

A tearful squeak was followed by Tony’s _‘oomph!’_ as if someone had shoved him off the ramp. Peter didn’t have time to make his entrance before a woman in gold-trimmed orange robes swept into the ship. Piercing brown eyes pinned him down and she sprung, snatching him out of his stupor and crushing him in a flurry of puffing sleeves and trailing scarves. Ponderous footsteps boarded _The Avenger_ and the woman jerked away momentarily, just long enough for Peter to see broad shoulders, a cleft chin and murky blue eyes before he was smothered again.

“It’s really him, Ben!” May sobbed. “He’s here!”

“I deliver on my promises,” Tony said from the entrance, sounding too smug for a man who had just been barreled off his own gangway.

Stepping back just as Peter thought he might suffocate, May crouched and ran her fingers through his hair, lingering on the padawan braid. “He looks just like them,” she said to Ben. “Doesn’t he?”

“May, I think we should introduce ourselves,” the tall man said gently. His smile was uncertain as he greeted, “I’m Ben Parker. Your father was my brother. This is my wife, May.”

“I have family?” Peter said faintly, looking imploringly to Tony for guidance.

“Jedi don’t grow from crystals,” the man stated.

“Oh, don’t be such a hard-nosed acklay,” May scolded. She straightened Peter’s robes, her eyes moist and searching as though she was trying to memorize every inch of him. “We promised not to contact you. The Jedi Code forbids attachments, and ... well, we wanted you to have the best. Tony kept us informed of your progress, but we never thought we’d see you.”

“Except on the holonet,” Ben said wistfully. “Someday, when you were a great Jedi.”

He had family. People who knew his parents and still believed in his future. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Peter croaked.

Tony shrugged uncomfortably. “Younglings enter the temple at birth. Families who choose to give them to the temple sacrifice any future involvement. You would’ve met them eventually, but here on the A-Team we like to nudge a few rules, disrupt timelines, make connections....”

_I have an aunt and uncle._ Peter swayed, orange silk and creamy robes blurring in a wet haze. _I’m not the only one._

“May, we should talk more inside,” Ben insisted, a gentle hand cupping Peter’s elbow. “It’s inhospitable to keep our guests waiting on their own ship.”

“Yes, definitely. Inside, you two,” May said, taking Peter’s other hand. “I’ll have Larb set out refreshments and we can talk where it’s cooler.”

“Or we can all sit outside,” Tony suggested. “Free air, no confinements. Peter’s never seen grass.”

Somehow that resulted in a variety of delicately wired tables misappropriating to the green carpet by a pond, as Peter was herded to sit under a tree while May arranged tea and barked out orders.

“No droids," she said as FRIDAY hovered.

“That was one time,” Tony argued, “And he’s grounded for life.”

“Out!” May snapped, shuttling the sentry droid back to the ship.

Peter tucked his fingers into silky, cold green threads that sponged under his palms and stained his skin. He breathed in deeply, wrinkling his nose at the ticklish sensation of foreign particles, and tried to identify the pungent odors of earth and perfume and stone. The sky was deep blue, striped here and there with brushes of clouds, without an air speeder in sight. Peter contemplated that if he spun a line from a tree on this planet, he might actually fly.

“Does she... does Aunt May not like droids?” Peter wondered, turning the familial name over in his head. It sounded right, but it still stuck in his throat.

Ben looked relieved to hear the association. “We have Larb,” he said, pointing to the serving droid that roved over the lumpy lawn with a serving tray of pink beverages. “May just doesn’t get along with Tony’s droids.”

“Why not?” Peter asked.

A muscle in Ben’s cheek twitched. “There was an instance. Priceless keepsakes and a fritz-wired heathen that hosed May with anti-inflammatory particles. She made a ground rule for Tony’s visits.”

“How often does he come here?” Peter asked. He twisted a handful of grass and jerked back when the sprigs broke in his hands, horrified that he could destroy something so fragile. The nagging thought settled deep in his chest. _They’re my family, and he saw them whenever he felt like it. Why didn’t he tell me?_

“Not as often as May wanted,” Ben admitted. He looked at Peter fondly, something lost and mournful lingering in his gaze. “You look just like your father, Pete.”

“I wouldn’t really know,” Peter mumbled. Everyone knew his parents, and it seemed, his extended family. Predacean Parker, always hidden from the respectable public.

“When you were left in our care, May and I intended to raise you,” Ben said. He sounded apologetic, like it was his fault Peter got all the bad genes. “But we couldn’t pass up the chance for you to be part of a greater good. We wanted to wait for you to be old enough to make your own choices, but the Jedi are strict about age regulations.” Blue eyes swept over Peter with nostalgia. “It was the hardest thing we ever had to give up; that time with you.”

_You wanted me here with you?_ Not if they’d known his mother. Everyone said it was her fault the ship crashed. They walked away. They left their captain to burn.

“Why did the Jedi take me?” Peter asked. Surely here, in these formative moments, they wouldn’t lie to him. _You have a gift, Peter. You’re powerful in the Force. The Jedi don’t waste Force-Sensitive children._

Ben watched Tony bicker with May over the placement of porcelain platters, and said at length, “That’s not my story to tell. You were brought to us, and we returned you to the Jedi. Now, the story has come full circle.”

“Could I stay here?” Peter considered warily. He caught Ben’s startled look and stammered, “If something ever happened, where the Jedi decided not to continue my training.”

Ben harrumphed, nodding forward as Tony bumbled to catch a tilting fruit platter. “With Stark for a master?” It seemed to be an all-encompassing statement, filled with enigmatic wisdom and finality. Ben added as an afterthought, “If you ever get tired of being a Jedi, though, May and I will always take you back. Never doubt that.”

“You mean it?” Peter whispered.

Wistfulness crinkled blue eyes before Ben raised one arm, lowering it cautiously across Peter’s shoulders, giving him time to lean away. Peter settled into the embrace and Ben relaxed, tucking him in securely.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re still our kid. Kriff that furry Jedi Master and his directives. You want out, we’ll come get you any time.”

Peter didn’t want out. He wanted to pass the Knight Trials and prove he was beyond the dark and make Tony proud for choosing him as his padawan. He wanted to be a Jedi.

But the emptiness inside him vanished just a little more, knowing that he would belong somewhere if everything came to an end.

“Come and get it, Spidey!” Tony called through cupped hands, gesturing grandly at the layout of tiered sweets and pastries.

An Alderaanian tea indeed — it was practically a seven day dessert feast, with everything from Jogan fruit tarts to Muja muffins to caramelized Pkneb.

“So,” Tony said, handing Peter a plate heaped with _everything_ while he himself chomped on a piece of classic walnut date loaf, “Tell Aunt May all about your adventures of being a Jedi.”

Thrust into the central focus of fierce, sparkling brown eyes, Peter fumbled to find the chair behind him as he explained, “Well, technically I’m not a Jedi yet. Everyone starts out as younglings, and the older ones are called initiates, and then once we’re chosen by a master we’re called padawans, and after years of training, if we pass the Knight trials then....”

He trailed off as May’s eager smile jolted, and Tony rolled his eyes. “Oh. Too much information?”

“Yeah, we don’t need the entire backstory, Kid,” Tony said.

May pressed a glass of the pink beverage into Peter's hand ad sat down quickly, leaning forward in her chair and nearly capsizing the plate balanced on the edge of the table. “Do you have any friends at the temple, Peter? People just like us?”

“Just like....?” Peter tilted his head in confusion as Tony cringed and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked down at the faint red lines just peeking out from under his sleeves, and the hardy, whole skin of his aunt and uncle.

_Oh_.

“Uh... Yeah....” Peter said, heat flooding his neck. “I have... friends.”

“Oh, we didn’t mean to embarrass you, sweetie!” May said, her enthusiasm plunging into concern. “It’s just that your mother always had trouble at social events. We wanted to make sure you were settled in okay.”

Ben awkwardly cleared his throat. “May, she had four arms. And I’m sure Peter didn’t come here to talk about his peers.”

“No, we want to hear all about _you_ ,” May agreed. “Biyearly updates only convey so much. What do you like to do, Peter? Have you been on any special missions yet? Have you given any thoughts as to what you want to be as a Jedi?”

“By the Force,” Tony breathed out, his eyes darting between Peter and May. “Are you sure they’re not related by blood?”

“We’ve speculated that she and Mary were lost twins,” Ben grumbled, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, stop that,” May tittered, waving him off. “Just because we dragged you into that Twi’lek dance bar for your coming-of-age ceremony.” Reminiscence claimed dark eyes as she looked back at Peter with affection. “You remind me so much of her.”

Tony grunted, knocking back a swig of his pink beverage. He swallowed with a grimace, picking green out from between his teeth, and stared at the bit of plant with an odd expression. Snapping dark eyes honed in on Peter and he marched forward, snatching the glass from his hand. “How much of this did you drink?”

“None...?” Peter admitted. There wasn’t really time between the bombardment of questions.

“Don’t drink it,” Tony ordered. To May he directed, “What’s in this?”

Shaken, she looked uncertainly from Peter to Tony. “Strawberries, tang juice, honey and mint? It’s a classic, everyone has a recipe for —“

“You said you knew Mary so well, and now you try to poison her son?” Tony accused. “Was all of that just an act? Trying to reel him out here so you could put him in the ground? Kriff, is someone _paying_ you to do this?”

“What are you talking about?” May exclaimed, appalled. “He’s my nephew!“ She plonked her glass onto the table, pointing out, “We’re all having the same drinks! You saw me pour. I just got to see him again and you think I would kill him?”

“That’s quite enough, Stark,” Ben warned, rising from his chair in indignation. “I know it’s your job to be paranoid, but don’t take it out on my wife.”

“Everything here is the same,” May insisted. She snatched Peter’s glass from Tony’s hand and took three gulps, setting it on the table with a clank of finality. “There! Do you want any more proof, or would you prefer to run an analysis in your fancy clanker?”

“I’m not sure this is the best environment for Peter after all,” Ben pondered, searching Peter’s reaction for something. “Do you feel safe with the Jedi, son?”

“Oh, for the love of — it’s mint,” Tony snapped, tugging a sprig of green leaves from the refresher and flapping it. “Didn’t you ever witness Mary’s seizures? Statistics indicate 38.687% of natural planets uses mint as a household pest repellent and people put it in their food.”

Understand flickered in May’s eyes and she pressed her hand over her mouth. “Oh my stars... she had a seizure at Ben’s coming-of-age ceremony. The shots had mint... We never knew....”

“But the temple cafeteria has mint jelly,” Peter said, looking wistfully at the cold glass. “I’ve never had any problems.”

“Synthetic,” Tony said, brushing him off. “Hardly the same thing. Remember I said I’d do my research after the spidypop episode? No mint, no citrus, no unusual spices — at least until we run some blood tests. Which I should’ve done on our way here, I just didn’t think about natural foods making an appearance.”

“Well, we won’t have this in the house again,” May declared, snatching up each glass and pitching the contents onto the grass. “What else should we know about? Is he allergic to cinnamon? I didn’t put any in the walnut loaf.”

“I think this will be fine,” Tony said, exchanging Peter’s colorful plate for a hunk of brown pastry bread. “I’ll run an analysis on these in the ship. You can eat them later.”

“Really?” May said skeptically, catching Peter’s disappointed scowl. “Do they let kids do _anything_ in the temple? Have you ever tried street food? Or eaten a vegetable? Is everything processed or simulated on Coruscant?”

“We eat natural fruits and veggies, just like the majority of the galaxy,” Tony insisted, nibbling on one of Peter’s denta bean buns. “Fresh greens are a low priority on the trade network. The temple has great synthesizers — they can make a cabbage leaf taste like fresh tarragon.”

May screwed up her face. “We are sending you back with real food. A year’s worth.”

“We expect you here bimonthly for a supply run,” Ben added.

“And Peter needs a plant,” Tony pitched in. “Something hardy and low maintenance that can thrive on artificial lighting and basic levels of air filtration.”

Exchanging a queasy look with Ben, May asked Peter, “Are you sure you want to be a Jedi? You can always stay here with us. We have a duck pond, and you can always make friends here and finish your schooling in Aldera.”

“We promise fresh air and constellations,” Ben said. His eyes were teasing, though, and Peter knew it wasn’t an order.

All the same, they wanted him to stay. It filled his chest with warmth and nostalgia as he admitted, “I want to be a Jedi. It’s not that bad at the temple — really.”

“You’re bringing him here bimonthly,” May ordered, pinning Tony with a sharp look. “And we get to call him every night. I’m not going through another year of wondering about him.”

“I guarantee a private line and frequent communications,” Tony reassured her. “I’ll make sure he remembers to call.”

“He’d better,” May said, brown eyes dancing. “Now that you’ve brought him back to us, I don’t think I could bear to let him go again.”

* * *

“For the record, this is why Jedi discourage parental contact,” Tony said, chucking a ribbon entwined loaf of walnut date loaf into the garbage disposal. “Too many strings attached. Rhodey is now expected to handle minor disputes on Corellia, and Barton has to take family leave every few weeks to snap his kids back into shape. And now I’m obligated to arrange meet-and-greets every two months or else your aunt will smear my image all over the holonet. Very influential people in Alderaan, your kin.”

“How ... How did Aunt May know my mother?” Peter posed, toying with the gold strand May had woven into his padawan braid.

Tony cast him a perturbed glance. “You know the stories. Didn’t Fury ever tell you about your parents?”

“I know the stories,” Peter said numbly. His father was a padawan, his mother a Sith apprentice who lured him into an unholy relationship. Neither of them were destined for greatness.

“The right ones, or the rumors?” Tony pointed out. He slung into the bench across from Peter, pegging in a few codes. Instead of a holochess match, a flickering hologram popped up. It was definitely the A-Team, or part of it, with younger faces and more Jedi appropriate attire. Peter instantly picked out the woman with slick red hair and an extra set of hands. The man beside her sported no braid.

“Richard skipped the trials,” Tony said, retrospection leveling his tone. “He was officiated into the A-Team at seventeen. Didn’t need all the pomp and flourish of a Knighthood. Mary was Nat’s personal trainer; taught her everything she knows about espionage.”

“How did my father meet her?” Peter asked softly.

“Mission guide,” Tony said briskly. “We needed an asset for a rescue op. She was highly recommended. She and Rich might’ve been ... overly friendly towards each other, but what happens on Malastare stays there. She decided to kick the spy habit and joined our team. Special accommodations; we don’t normally bring outsiders into the temple after a certain age group. She had the training, we just had to work on ... appropriate social interactions.”

“Because she was a Sith,” Peter said bitterly.

“Lethal Force-wielding assassin, not the same thing,” Tony declared. “Not everything falls into the Dark vs. Light side category. She fell right in with your aunt, by the way. We took cover every time those two flung a party. You would’ve loved it. Not a hint of posh; no one could feel out of place when your mom was in the room.”

_Because she was a freak, and everyone seemed normal by comparison_ , Peter acknowledged, tugging on his sleeves.

“Hey,” Tony said, his brow furrowing in dismay. “Why the self-conscious vibes? Remember the Force bond, Kid. If you’ve got icky feelings inside, just spill it.”

“They said she was a Sith,” Peter snapped. “She turned him, too. Am I ... do you really think I’ll be just like them?”

Anger rippled in dark eyes as Tony focused on the hologram. “Whatever the underlings said about your parents, they’re wrong,” he insisted. “Your parents were strong, clever, and confident in their devotion for one another. They used the Force for their own ends, but they had the good of the people in mind. If you grow up to be just a hint like your parents, you’ll be a better Jedi than most of the council.”

Smiling wanly at Peter, Tony reassured him, “The code is for grumps who can’t abide without rules. Our creed is to answer first to the Force, and then to those who need us. Don’t let yourself be squashed by those with petty opinions.”

“I want to be a real Jedi,” Peter told him. _I want to be good._

“And you will be!” Slapping the table, Tony stood up and meandered to the wrapped platter of sweets that he’d smuggled out of May’s kitchen. “You’ll also be an amazing spiderboy. We just have to figure out these side ticks first. Grab the molecular analyzer there. Oh, and I need some of your saliva. We’ll have to test your dietary requirements before we pit stop at another planet. I’m thinking Batuu next. They host illegal pod races, and the fried cushnips are to die for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flash's Dictionary of Peter Parker Pseudonyms: 
> 
> Predacean — a predatory animal


	5. Stepping Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally a filler chapter. (Note the fluff tag warning.) Gotta have some cozy moments in between the peril! (I mean, it's not like the Jedi spend every second weekend on a new mission. Well... maybe the A-Team does.)

Natasha stole his fern. It was a poofy, blue-needled mammoth of a plant, nearly twice his size and too large for his quarters, but still. Tony had selected it personally.

“Which is exactly why you should leave it with me,” Natasha declared, handing Peter a jiggling, spiky tentacled plant as compensation while Clint and Bruce grumbled and heaved at the fern’s massive pot. “This is a healing plant. The locals call it Spider Aloe. Smear the insides of the leaf on your ‘saber burns next time you train.”

The spider dig was obvious, and Tony scoffed when he realized how badly Peter lost the exchange. It did suit his room better than the monster plant, though, and the plump leaves looked vaguely... intriguing.

“Don’t eat that,” Tony said too late, as Peter hastily swallowed the sweet and bitter pulp while wiping goo off his hands. “It’s topical use only. Improper dilution will give you ulcers. Also diarrhea, kidney problems and liver failure.”

Peter didn’t get ulcers, and it tasted amazing. Natasha was much more sympathetic when she caught him munching on a sprig.

“Tony doesn’t believe in the old ways,” she said, selecting an aloe with red tendrils and cupping it into Peter’s hands. “Bacta heals you on the outside. This will cure from within.”

She introduced Peter to sweet aloe nectar, salty pulp mash, and drizzly syrup. Tony didn’t comment on the growing collection of spiky plants on their shared counter space, although he seemed fond of poking them, and fretted over the inexplicable blight that occasionally stripped their juicy leaves. The line of aloes were swiftly labeled Spangles, Arrow, Patriot, Sparkles and Pilates. (Apparently he struggled to cope without his mission buddies.)

Ned unveiled a whole new level of weirdness.

“You’re always off having adventures,” Ned said longingly as he pieced together the wing of a model Acclamator-Class Assault Ship. “I mean, Master Carter is cool, but we just practice drills in the morning. And meditate. She gives me lots of time to “find myself.” I guess I have to wait until I’ve mastered Form I before I can go on my first mission.”

“No way, we totally finished Form I last year,” Peter argued. 

“Yeah,” Ned said dully. “Technically we’ve had one mission to Osgood Agricorps on Tanaab, which was pretty great. I never knew there could be so much space on a planet. I kinda hoped we’d be ambushed by pirates, but we left early because I kept sneezing from all the hay.”

“You’re allergic to organic substances?” Peter said, sparing Ned a perturbed glance before he nudged one of the model’s tiny cannon turrets into place. 

“I know, it’s really going to hamper missions in the future,” Ned mourned.

“No, they got stuff for that; antihistamines and all,” Peter encouraged, dabbing glue onto the next turret. Kriff, this gunk reeked. “Master Stark won’t let me try authentic mint to see if I’m allergic. He says it’s not worth compromising my nervous system.”

“You can’t have mint?” Ned said, aghast. “But what about mint jellies, peppermint nougat cream, Cardellian mints, minty whip, mint chor-cake, peppermint pikatta pie? You love mint!”

“Yeah, well apparently there’s a lot of stuff I shouldn’t be eating,” Peter grumbled, his stomach growling as Ned rattled off his favorite desserts. “I didn’t know it was that easy to turn into space dust.”

“And here I thought it was harsh to skip breakfast before ‘saber training,” Ned said in horrified awe.

“And apparently everything tastes too salty because I’m averse to excess sodium,” Peter continued. “No concentrated citrus, no vinegar, no pungent herbs — Master Stark would have me eating bland oatmeal and date loaf if he thought it would still maintain my metabolism.”

“Dude, your uncle’s right,” Ned said, shuddering in sympathy. “Master Stark is super paranoid.”

“Yeah, well....” Peter gnawed his lip, shrugging off the excuse as nonchalance. “I guess some things passed down... from my mom....”

“Ohhhh,” Ned realized, his eyes going wide. “You mean the spider thing.”

“Shhh!” Peter hissed, looking anxiously at the door. “We’re not calling it that!”

“Right, the _special forces asset_ thing,” Ned corrected sagely. “But that explains a lot. Did you know spiders are one of the most hunted arthropods in the galaxy? There’s hundreds of different articles on how to evict them from your house, with everything from special oils to incinerating their egg sacks.”

“We’re not talking about egg sacks,” Peter said blandly. “Seriously, we’ve been over this. I think I would know if I had a hundred siblings.”

“Did you know spiders will even stop eating and die if they feel constantly threatened by a predator?” Ned rattled off. “Most people think they’re the scariest invasive species but they’re actually vulnerable to like — everything — so it’s a good thing you’re only partially Harch or you probably would’ve died on your first mission.”

If Ilum was technically the first, then yes. Peter did almost accomplish that.

“Also, spiders have a very complex diet,” Ned considered, eyeing the glazed aloe candies Natasha had dropped off earlier. “Do you think the Jedi are accidentally starving you?”

“Everyone is dying from the cafeteria food,” Peter said, nudging Ned’s hand away when he reached for the sweets. _No. Do not touch those._

“I mean, it’s all highly nutritious, and they import what they can’t synthesize, but spiders normally eat bugs, small birds and rodents,” Ned analyzed. He stared woundedly at the candies until Peter rolled his eyes and opened the bag. 

“I don’t crave bugs. That’s just gross,” he grumbled, snagging two candies himself.

“Yeah, but maybe that means you need special substitutions,” Ned said. He roved the hardened sweet in his mouth and gagged, spitting it into his hand. “Do these taste slimy to you?”

“What — don’t just waste it!” Peter protested, filching the abused sweet and trying to wipe off the spit. Still salvageable. 

Ned gave him a weird look and eyed the now half empty bag. “Maybe Master Stark needs to help you formulate a diet plan.”

* * *

Peter could’ve done with a few extra missions. Time spent at the temple meant training, and not in the lightsaber fashion. There were Huttese lessons with Jarvis, combat sessions with every A-Team master who had an hour to spare (and needed a good skirmish), technical lessons on maintaining an energy-powered luxury battle cruiser, and mandatory reading involving interplanetary cultural texts or droid manuals that Tony thrust at him whenever there was an off evening.

And then there were the spider sessions.

“This looks good,” Tony said, leaning over a scrap metal pit and crinkling his nose at the reek of spilt oil dregs.

Edging forward, Peter looked queasily into the tangled scrapyard, and then back at his master. Rusted panels, gutted engines, shattered plexiglass, warped cooling units, soiled synthfabric, sparking control hubs, netted wires, and a sifting carpet of loose bolts, slivered metal and battered spare parts. “We’re... salvaging?”

“Not that exciting,” Tony said, examining the ceiling thoughtfully. “How far is your aim?”

“You mean for Force-throwing?” Peter realized. Although the masters didn’t bother with basic Force techniques after year seven. This was youngling stuff.

“No, your aim,” Tony said, tapping Peter’s wrist. “Think you can reach those ceiling lights?”

Peter craned his neck to see the dull orange bulbs and gulped. “I... uh... I actually haven’t tested a high vault before.”

“Well, we’re about to find out,” Tony stated. “See that XS freighter there? That’s your safe ground. Swing that way and come back to the platform. I think we can turn this into a decent obstacle course.”

“Wait no,” Peter said, his palms clamming as he estimated the drop. “I can’t — I haven't even swung down the temple stairs!”

“What does Master Flerkin say?” Tony retorted. “Do or do not or else be swallowed alive. Come on, let’s just give it a try. I’ll catch you if you lose your nerve.”

Grimly, Peter set his jaw. He wasn’t about to ‘lose his nerve.’ (Maybe a few limbs, but apparently that was minimal risk in the A-Team books.) Wriggling back his sleeves, he stared calculatingly at the swaying lamp and flung out his hand.

The white strand zipped seven feet and dropped in a limp, noodley puddle. Well, that was a failure from the start. 

“I’m going to assume this is where you stop flapping your hands around and actually try to hit something,” Tony contemplated. “You can use the Force, you know. I don’t perform backflips as sheer feats of strength.”

“I’ve just... never done this before,” Peter mumbled.

“Of course not. They told you not to walk when you were a baby, so how could you possibly run?” Tony commiserated. “Try something smaller. Go for that droideka hull over there. Don’t try to haul it in, just throw webs at it until you hit it straight.“

He did. For hours. Until Tony got hangry, and the scrap pit was a mess of titanium webbing. Peter managed to square the target eight times out of four hundred and fifty-two.

“We are definitely working on your spidey aim,” Tony established as he herded Peter towards a fritzle fry stand. “You are the most wasted resource in the temple.”

And thus the lessons progressed. Smother the scrap pits with feathery white goo. Scale the temple dome until he could cling to the duracrete even in his boots. Run laps around the temple hangar, using the starfighters as kickstands and springboards. (He could clear sixteen feet easily.) Donate his blood to make sure it wouldn’t interact poorly with natural elements.

“Did you know certain biodegradable sediments can suffocate spiders?” Tony pondered, scraping congealed red silt into a beaker. “It gets into their exoskeletons. Shrivels them up from the outside in.”

“So don’t give Nat any more potting soil,” Peter anticipated the jibe.

“It’s not Nat you’ve got to worry about,” Tony said. His sober assessment made Peter’s neck prickle. “Diatomite isn’t native to Secundus Ando. Just cue me in if you come across any suspicious white powder.” He set aside the beaker and beelined for the workbench, snapping his fingers at Peter. “Braid beads. Now. I’m attaching a distress signal to your homing beacon. Maybe a vitals monitor; something to warn the team if you start seizing.”

That was Peter’s first cue that it wasn’t just Light defenders who had the willies for spiders.

Word of his weird abilities got around. Parkour Parker was better than Paedophage, but Preternatural was par on the list with Palmiped. (And he didn’t miss the _web_ -footed implications.)

“I think Flash secretly envies you,” Liz consoled Peter after another squabble with the initiate resulted in a black eye and a meditate-on-the-ceiling-because-punishment-is-also-training session from Tony. “You already have a master, you’ve had three off-world missions, and you’re more physically dexterous than any of us. Why were the Jedi hiding you this whole time?”

A one-on-one session with the whole council settled that question.

“While it may be warrantable to hone his skills, the council does not advise your course of action,” Master Fury advised Tony as Peter hovered beside him, hands wrapped securely in the sleeves of his cloak. “Young Parker’s skills may be useful in a firefight, but we cannot deny that they originate from a Dark side planet.”

“They’re not Dark, they’re paramount,” Tony said crisply. “We have the most intelligent, inconspicuous asset in the galaxy and you’re afraid of a few spinners?”

“The Dark side of the Force calls to its own,” Master Pierce established. “A Harch that loses control may savage its own colony.”

“What, so Peter’s a threat?” Tony snapped. “You’re putting a kid on threat watch?” 

“We advise you to teach him restraint and discipline before you applaud his… singularities,” Hawley said. “A Jedi does not stand out among his peers. He invests in harmony and uniformity.”

“Sycophantism,” Tony proposed. “‘Cause everybody’s got to wield the same lightsaber.”

“You’ve already lost one padawan to the Dark side,” Pierce warned. “Do you really want to risk another war?”

“We’re already at war,” Tony answered. “I think we should use our soldiers, instead of lining them up in a synchronic death march. Civilizations are falling to the Sith, more planets are being enslaved, and we sit in chairs pondering the all-unifying Force.”

“You don’t have a seat on this council, Stark,” Pierce stated coldly. “There’s a reason for that.”

When they were safely cloistered in The Avenger with the electric boom of Sugaan Essena burying the echoes of reproachful words, Tony reassured Peter, “We’re still going to hone your webbers. The council’s had the same casting role of impassive dodgers since the days of the Old Republic. They can spout all they want but when they need you on the battlefield, you’re going to knock their boots off.”

“It’s true, though. Isn’t it?” Peter challenged softly. “The Harch species brutalizes its own family nests.”

“Just because you have a questionable heritage doesn’t mean you’re a monster,” Tony argued sensibly. “Remember, you’re 87.5% peace-toting pacifist. Ever heard of Alderaan sparking a war? I think you’re covered.”

Did Tony believe the same thing about his previous padawan, before he turned from the path? “What if you’re wrong?” Peter reasoned.

He held steady under Tony’s searching, ponderous stare, feeling the man probe against their bond; brushes of the question and reassurance, the bewilderment for his lack of faith.

“Do you want to join the Dark?” Tony asked.

Peter shook his head.

“Then I don’t see any reason to worry. Hand me that hydrospanner.” 

Tony was quieter the rest of the evening; almost indulgent. He barely raised his voice above a murmur as he walked Peter through the process of cleaning The Avenger’s reactor frame. It almost seemed as though he didn’t want Peter to spook after the evening’s drama.

If he really had lost a padawan to the dark side, then maybe that wasn’t such a pretentious conclusion. Maybe he was waiting for Peter to snap out a red blade, pull the shadows around him like a shield, walk away and never come back.

Secondary masters always feared repeating their first mistakes.

Swirling confidence and stability into the bond, Peter shifted closer to his master until their shoulders touched. _I’m not going anywhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Do Not Try This At Home  
> Aloe is good to take internally and externally, but in Low, Non-Concentrated doses. Listen to Tony’s wisdom. Peter is a spider and spiders like aloe plants, so he does what he wants. Don’t be like Peter.
> 
> Flash’s Dictionary of Peter Parker Pseudonyms: 
> 
> Paedophage — eater of children  
> Preternatural — beyond what is normal or natural  
> Palmiped — web-footed
> 
> Didn't have time to edit Chapter 6 tonight. The next one will be whump, I promise.


	6. A Spider's Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bad idea to leave the temple grounds after curfew. Especially when it feels like a trap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably loads of mechanical (and medical) inaccuracies, but I wanted flypaper. So. Have the first whumpfest of the series.

“Come on, I’ll show you how it works.”

Form IV was pretty advanced for an initiate, but the few moves that Liz incorporated into her Makashi routine transformed the drill into something more like a dance. Her slender boots pivoted effortlessly and she twirled into each strike, as if her opponent was a marionette and she was destined to cut their strings. Peter recalled the graceful tree in his aunt and uncle’s garden and he thought that if ever a sentient represented a planet’s life force, Liz would be a willow. 

“Wow, that’s... amazing,” he said, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his mouth and rubbing his sweaty palms. “You should show that to Master Brunnhilde. I think she — she’d be impressed.”

Liz grinned shyly, flushing at the praise. She couldn’t possibly be an initiate for much longer. She was too talented.

“Think you can copy that, Protomorphic Parker?” 

The saucy remark bouldered over the hum in Peter’s chest and he slouched into a turn, glaring at Flash. The brash initiate could somehow turn a sneer into a multilingual declaration of disdain that would make a doug check for boogers in its snout.

“Finally clear detention, Pulicoid?” Flash prodded. “Oh, that’s right — you had a council one-on-one. Hope they’re not making you pack your bags, now that they finally found another planet that will take you.”

“Flash, that’s enough!” Liz scolded. “Can we just be mature about this for once?”

“That’s actually kind of hard for him,” Peter said, deliberately fingering his braid. “Which is why he’s still an initiate.”

Flash’s gaze went stormy, but Liz dropped her eyes, her braid-free hair swishing over her shoulder. Cold dismay washed over Peter and he stammered, “I didn’t mean — you’re a great fighter, it’s not like —“

“It’s fine, Peter,” Liz said with a jaded smile. “You’ve made your thoughts pretty clear.”

“That’s not what I meant, Liz!”

“You know what, I’m going to the dueling room to get some _real_ practice,” Liz announced, casting both boys a scolding look. “Some of us work hard to be chosen.”

“Ouch,” Flash drawled when the initiate traipsed away. “Guess Putid Parker just struck out.”

“She’s right, though,” Peter snapped. “The name calling? Really mature for an initiate.”

“And you always hit first,” Flash retorted. “Guess who’s going to be stuck as a shrimpy padawan for the next fifty years?

“At least I have a master.”

“Whatever.” Flash shrugged valiantly, shouldering past Peter as though daring him to throw a right hook. “I’m going out. Word is they dumped a whole cargo bay of security droids after their servers went haywire. Brand new parts and they're going to melt them down for scraps. What a waste.”

“We’re not supposed to leave the temple grounds at night,” Peter said.

“And that stopped you when your droid project needed a cooling cable?” Flash snorted. “Gimme a break, Pteridomaniac. It’s just on the outskirts. You want to whine to Master Floofy Fur, be my guest.”

And be known as a tattler, a hypocrite and a flunkey. No thanks.

“Hey. They got vocabulators,” Flash proposed. “Maybe you can make an interpreter pit droid; one that can fix the ship _and_ negotiate on other planets. That would impress Master Stark big time.”

It was the unwritten code among the younglings. _When in trouble, always have a buddy system_. Sighing, Peter slouched after the grinning initiate, muttering under his breath, “We’re gonna be so dead if they catch us.”

“Nah. The masters never patrol the staircase after sunset,” Flash snarked. “They’re all sneaking chor-cake in the cafeteria.”

* * *

It was a good haul — no, it was a _great_ haul. A veritable mountain of powered down yellow drones heaped the scrapyard, all new parts and shiny paint. All they had to do was gut them.

“This is ridiculous,” Flash said, stripping a droid shell of its datalink receiver and buffers. “Do you realize how many billions of credits went into these things? And they all blipped out suddenly and turned on the senators they were supposed to protect. Talk about a manufacturing error. Somebody’s going to be sued out of business.”

“Why are we the only salvagers?” Peter wondered, glancing around the scrapheap as he tucked a handful of micro-servos into his satchel. The back of his neck itched. 

“New haul?” Flash shrugged. “Maybe word hasn’t gotten around yet. Lucky us.”

“Yeah....” Peter tied the satchel flaps, warily circling the heap. Brand new discarded tech, empty scrapyard, no security droids to dodge. “Flash, I think we should go back.”

“What, and miss all this great stuff?” Flash huffed, plucking the sensor probe from a shattered eyepiece. “I guess Paranoid Parker is chickening out.”

“No, really.” The itch spread across his shoulders, clawing at his skin like a chemical burn. “We’ve found enough parts. We shouldn’t be here.”

“Bawk, bawk, bawk!” Flash crowed. “You can run home if you want. I’m going to trade some of these voxchips for a proper set of micro-gyres. I’ve always wanted to build an android.”

“Flash, I’m not joking!”

“Flash, I’m not joking!” the initiate singsonged. “What, you got a Peter tingle going on there? You’re as bad as Betty. ‘Oh no, I’ve got a _really bad_ feeling about this!’”

“Yeah, it’s called the Force,” Peter snapped. “Try listening to it sometime.”

“What’s this?” Flash said, cupping his ear. “The Force thinks Peter Parker is pantopragmatic? The Force’s word, not mine!“

“Fine!” Peter said, yanking on the straps to tighten the satchel over his shoulder. “Stay here and get lasered when those security droids come out. I’m going back.”

“Bawk, bawk, Bawkerrr!” 

They were too loud. Too exposed. Peter stamped down the heap of yellow droids, jolts of dread crawling across his shoulders. _Have to go, have to run **now!**_

The gust of a starship engine barreled into the two children, blowing Flash from the top of the heap and flinging Peter six feet. Landing lights flared in Peter’s eyes, plunging the rest of the scrapyard into a muddled blue glare. Flash cried out and his voice was lost in the engine’s roar.

_Get out! Get out! Get out!_

Heavy boots pounded on the landing platform, accompanied by an odd swooshing rhythm. Peter rolled onto his side, rubbing dust out of his eyes, and squinted at the four figures approaching the droid heap. One galderian, one cingulon, one human, and an avian that was definitely the source of the swooshing sound. They were all heavily armored, sacks in hand and blasters at their hips. Smugglers.

“Slavers!” Flash hissed at Peter. “We gotta get out of here!”

“Start loading them up,” Wingdude ordered. “We’ve got one hour before they power up the sentries.”

Scheduled security. Empty yard. Billions of credits’ worth of equipment. “They planned this,” Peter whispered. “Somebody on the inside is helping them.”

“What does it matter?” Flash whispered. “If they find us, we’re cargo!”

“We can’t just let them take everything!” Peter protested. “Don’t you realize what they’re doing?” 

“Yes, they’re stealing scrap metal,” Flash stated. “Coruscant to Parker, what did we just do?”

“No, that’s not it!” Peter whispered, looking on anxiously as gleaming yellow droids were piled into sacks. “What if there wasn’t a factory glitch? What if this was a setup? Do you know how many battle droids somebody could power with those parts?”

“Do you know what the selling rate is for Force-sensitives in Mos Espa?” Flash parried. “I don’t care what they’re doing with the droids! Let’s go!”

“No, that’s… this is why we’re Jedi!" Peter insisted. “If we go back to the temple, it’ll be another hour before they can scramble a team. They’ll be long gone by then.”

“And so will we!” Flash emphasized. “What is wrong with you? We’re not Jedi, we’re padawans — I don’t even have a braid yet! I’m not killing myself just because some stupid pantomimist wants to play hero!”

“Hey, I got life forms in the area,” the human scavenger called out, holding up a scanner.

Eyes widening, Peter batted Flash’s arm. “Go, go, go!”

They fled with clunky strides, sheet panels and coiled wires shifting beneath their feet, the Force their only guide to scope the darkness. It wasn’t much different from the street courses that Tony incorporated into Peter’s training, but Flash was used to solid running tracks and sturdy climbing walls. The masters didn’t typically shoot at them from behind, either.

“Tinkerer, on your left!” the galderian called to the cingulon. “Don’t let them get away!”

Flash stumbled, his satchel snagging on a rusted, sheared wingtip, and he hollered as a blaze of blue energy smashed into his back.

“No, no, no, no!” Peter exclaimed, skidding into a crouch, frantically gauging the distance between them and their pursuers. Colors bled into his vision one moment, haloes of green and red and blue, vanishing in the next. _Kriffing, stupid hormones, now is not the time to debate over night vision perks!_ He blinked away the color splotches, lunging after Flash. The initiate twitched, dark eyes glazed, arms limp. Yanking the satchel strap until it snapped, Peter grabbed him under the arms and heaved, wondering if he could manage one web line strong enough to carry them both into the air. 

He didn’t get the chance to try. Blue swarmed his vision and a hammering blow slammed into his ribcage, flinging him into a pile of scrap metal. Buzzing filled his head and his teeth clacked over his tongue, filling it with a copper burst. Shudders sprang from his bones, pooling in his blood like a swarm of fire ants, filling his vision with grey. He felt a steel capped boot nudge his shoulder, turning him onto his back before a glowrod flashed in his eyes. 

“Would you look at that,” the mechanical voice of the avian rasped, roving the light over his white tunic. “Looks like we caught us a couple of Sensitives.”

“We have a few collars on board, Boss,” Tinkerer said. “Want me to grab ‘em?”

“No, no way,” the human said nervously. “Look at the braid. Parts is one thing. We start kidnapping padawans, they’ll send a Jedi squad out and next thing we know the whole senate will be on our tails. Let’s just take the droids and go.”

“Too late for that, Davis. They’ve already seen us,” Wingdude mused. He straightened, nodding to his crew. “Get the Force collars. We’ll drop them off on Malastare; let someone else take the burn.”

“You got it,” Tinkerer said. 

_No, no, no… Master Stark, tell me this thing works,_ Peter thought, plunging every ounce of dread into the bond. _This is so bad, we shouldn’t have come here, I really, really hope you’re listening._

The galderian bent over him with a crafty sneer, and cold metal snapped around Peter’s neck.

The Force vanished. 

Flash keened, thrashing on Peter’s other side, but all he could sense was _gone, gone, why is it so dark, where is it, **give it back!**_

Cold in his limbs, emptiness in his head, no bond, no Force, no existence. Peter struggled numbly, barely aware of the blood flow returning to his limbs, clawing at his hair as the void enveloped him. _No! Master Stark, where are you?_

“Heh, they really do a number on Sensitives,” the galderian commented, hauling Peter up and pushing him towards the ship. One arm seized in an iron grip, the rest of him immobilized by a scaly hand clapped around the back of his neck; he’d never felt so helpless. “Too bad they ain’t pretty. Or exotics.”

“We’re not wasting time on an auction, Shocker,” Wingdude said. “The sooner they’re off our hands, the better. The Collector knows his business; he'll pay well enough.”

“Just saying, Sensitives are in high demand,” Shocker prodded. “They make your crops grow fine, mind-trick your enemies, sway your business customers, filch stuff right off the security racks.... These ones are still young. Easier for proper training to set in.”

“We’re not slaves!” Flash slurred.

Laughter pinged off metal walls as they were dragged into the freighter. “You keep telling yourself that,” Shocker said, tapping a stun blaster against the initiate's cheek.

The shockwaves must have been minimal; designed to impede, but not damage. Peter could already feel his fingers again. He spat out blood from where his teeth had caught his tongue and flexed his wrists. The galderian towered over him, powerful wires wrapping his hand, but Peter had a long line of hunky and fuzzy relatives. He spun on impulse, twisting his wrist down and around, spinning out of the galderian’s wrist. Shocker spewed an oath as he tripped into the wall.

“Whoah.” Peter couldn't believe that actually worked.

“Hey — hey, he just got loose!” Davis exclaimed, reaching for his blaster. “Boss, the smaller kid ain’t human!”

Oh kriff, there was four against one and Peter hadn't considered the blasters. He yelped and dodged Shocker’s bolt, stumbling over feet that were still partially numb, and let the fall carry into a roll as Davis sprang towards him. Red blaster shots screamed over his head.

“Don’t shoot him!” Shocker hollered. 

“Well, then put him down again!” Davis exclaimed. “I thought the collars were supposed to work!” 

“Just get out of my way, Kung!”

Peter didn’t know what made him do it. It was pure instinct. Panic born of shadowed dreams and cobwebbed mornings. There was no Force to push the enemy away, but when he snapped out his hand, he saw the droideka in a scrapyard and heard Tony’s voice goading him to try again, one more time, he could do it, just point and shoot.

White floofed around Davis’s blaster hand, smacking him into the wall. “The kriff!”

“Hey!” Tinkerer shouted from behind. “Put your hands on your head and your butt on the floor, or this kid’s taking an extended nappy-naptime!”

Whirling around, Peter caught sight of Flash’s desperate, wide eyes and the stun blaster tucked under his chin, before blue collided with him a second time and he scooted across the floor, limbs jerking and teeth plunging into his cheek. Rough hands scooped him off the floor, and the stunner jabbed against his neck in warning.

“Next one could short your brains, dungcreeper. Davis, get the cuffs on these kids.”

“I can’t,” Davis said, panic creeping into his voice as he yanked his tethered hand. “I’m stuck.”

“Is it that hard to put two children in the hold?” Wingdude grumbled, dragging three brimming sacks of droids into the freighter and tossing them against the wall. He looked briskly at Davis and snapped, “Get out there and make yourself useful.”

“ _I can’t!_ ” Davis repeated. “It won’t come off!” 

“The kid stuck him with something,” Tinkerer said warily. “I don’t know what he is, but he definitely isn’t human.”

Stepping closer, Wingdude scrutinized the webbing and tugged on Davis’s wrist. The man grimaced, muttering, “No, really — it’s not moving,” before Wingdude backed away, armored fingerprints darkening on Davis's skin as he removed his hand. 

“How do we get rid of this?” he asked Peter. 

“You can’t,” Peter said, curling his lip in bitter triumph as he forced the words between numbed teeth. “There’s no… s’lution. Hafta wait until it’s bio...degraded.”

“I can’t stay here until this dang thing disintegrates!” Davis yelped. “Wait, kid — how long does that take? Like an hour? A week?”

Peter shrugged. “Your problem. Shouldn’t've… captured us.”

He regretted his sass as Wingdude stalked forward, steel frames creaking as they unfurled. “Tell us how to remove it.”

“You can’t,” Peter enunciated deliberately. “It’s stuck.”

“You mean I’m stuck like this unless they chop it?” Davis exclaimed. “I can’t do that, man! I’ve got a nephew back on Dantooine. If I go back home with a prosthetic I’ll scare him half to death!”

“No one’s amputating your hand,” Wingdude said. His hand shot out, clawed gauntlet tangling in Peter’s hair, baring his neck. “How long does it last?”

Licking his lips, Peter whispered, “Couple hours. Maybe. You can wash it off with a cleaning solution after that.”

Giving a quick nod, the avian released him. “Hang on a few hours, Davis. We’ll get you out.”

“With my arm intact,” Davis ensured. 

“With your arm intact. Just hold your liver in. Tinkerer, put them in the cells.”

“You’re karking kidding me,” Shocker groused. “This little sleemo shook off a stun bolt and pinned Davis like a fly, and you want to put him in a barrel locker? I’m not taking one of those web things to the face. You figure out how to restrain him properly, or we’re taking him to the Collector _sans arms_.”

“Wait, you don’t have to…” Peter grimaced, twisting in Shocker’s grip, gasping as the stun blaster readjusted against his temple. “It won’t happen again. You don’t have to cut anything off."

Tilting his head, Wingdude directed to Tinkerer, “You got that spray durabond in the cargo hold?”

“What… the stuff that seals airlocks and canonfire scores?” Tinkerer scoffed. “Sure I got it. Ain’t no ship got any business traveling without it.”

“Bring a cannister,” Wingdude said. “Leave the brat. He won’t try anything.”

Shrugging, Tinkerer shoved Flash against the wall, jabbing a finger at him with a gruff warning to, “Stay put.”

Still shaky from the electricity, barricaded by durasteel and threatened on three sides, Flash nodded frantically, inched into the corner to huddle into himself. 

“H-Hey, it’s kinda obvious that I’m the only special one here,” Peter chattered, wincing as his swollen tongue brushed his teeth. “It’s not like you need another human. There’s planets full of them, who-who wants to collect those?”

“Shut your trap, Kid,” Wingdude instructed. He held out a hand as Tinkerer returned, shaking up a heavy metal can with a narrow rubber hose. “How long does it take?”

“Couple minutes,” Tinkerer said. “Maybe you should hit him again.”

“Shocker, zap him.”

“You’re kiddin — _gghh!_ ”

The pulse was shorter, but it snapped Peter’s head back as his neck cramped, crippling jabs boring into muscles that were already shaky from the afterburn of previous shocks. His eyes rolled back momentarily, and when the light returned he saw Wingdude spraying the canister’s contents in a wide swathe across the wall. Thick, transparent fluid coated the duracrete, congealing in spaces where the layer ran thin. 

“Okay. Bring him.”

“What’re… doin’.....” Peter urged his legs to move, breathing faster as he was dragged towards the wall. 

“No. Wait. What are you doing to him?” Flash’s voice wavered from the corner. "What is that stuff?"

“Just a little lesson in _‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’_ ” Wingdude said. He plucked Peter out of the galderian’s grasp and planted him against the wall, pressing his cheek into the goo. “This is how we deal with space ticks on this ship.”

“Wait — that’s not — kriff, is that — is that going to come off?” Flash exclaimed. “You can’t be — I thought you wanted to sell him!”

“Oh, it’ll come off,” Wingdude said with a grim chuckle. “In time, with a little scrubbing and some flayed skin. There, that’s good and tight. You won’t be giving us any trouble now.”

Oh kriff. _Kriff, kriff, kriff._ Peter craned his neck and hissed as the fluid stuck, gumming his cheek and tugging on his hair. It was on his hands, on his boots, kriff _it wasn’t_ _coming off!_

“Struggle all you want, little fly,” Wingdude said. “You’ve got about three minutes to find a comfortable position before that hardens.”

No, no, no. Buckling against the pull, Peter yanked both arms, gasping as they trailed a scant inch before sinking into translucent taffy. “No… wait, please… I won't do it again, you don't have to do this!”

“When Davis comes loose, we’ll get you out of there,” Wingdude promised. “A gunner should learn to respect his own weapons, don’t you think?”

He nodded at Shocker and jabbed in Flash’s direction. “Just put the cuffs on that one. He’ll cooperate.”

“Please don’t seal me,” Flash begged, quivering as stun cuffs latched over his wrists. “I won’t move, I’m — I’m one with the Force, I’m one with the wall, I'm the last one to cause any trouble...

“Just quit your chattering,” Davis grumbled. “You’re not the only one trapped here.”

“Stick tight,” Wingdude said to him, like it was a merry joke. “We’ll finish loading and take her out. You can watch the kids.”

“Oh, right. Kick a man while he’s down,” Davis said. “Yeah, I’ll watch ‘em. Ain’t got nothing better to do.”

Dodgy figures tramped in and out. Bags stacked against the wall. Peter squeezed his eyes shut, breathing sharply in through the nose, out through his teeth. _It’s fine. It’s just a few hours, they’ll get me out, this isn’t permanent._

“Hey, Kid,” Davis said uncomfortably, bringing Peter’s awareness to the silent hangar. “They ain’t gonna stick you again. You can breathe now.”

_I’m breathing, I’m calm, I’m — kriff!_ Bucking spasms in his chest and air whistling in his throat. Peter yanked on his tethered arms, sobbing when the sealant wavered and ebbed back into place. _I can’t move, I can’t move, I can’t —_

“You’ve got to calm down,” Flash urged, suddenly planted against the wall across from Peter and _when did he move how much time was he losing?!_ “H-Hey, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay. It’s just a little hangup. The Jedi will send a squad out to find us and they’ll get you out of there. You just gotta hold on.”

_They’re not coming they can’t sense us we’ll be long gone **I**_ **_can’t move!_ **

He yanked on his right arm and twisted his head, keening when the rubbery substance clung to his hair. _Get off, get off,_ **_get off!_ **

“Holy kriff — the kid’s pulling on the durabond!” Davis called out. 

“Leave him,” the robotized voice answered. “He’ll skin himself before it comes apart.”

“Uh, yeah. I think that’s a distinct possibility” Davis warned.

Flash’s eyes flew wide. “P-Peter, you’ve got to stop. You’re — you’re bleeding. Just stop struggling and calm down.”

“I’m — not — dying — in this!” Peter choked out, yelling as sharp pain lanced his wrist. 

“Nobody’s dying! Stop being a drama queen and give it a few minutes,” Davis urged. “You don’t see me trying to rip off my hand here.”

Sticky resin between his fingers, pinning his legs, binding his shoulders to merciless steel. Gum in his eye, snaring his hair, clinging to his skin as he tried to pull away. _No, I can’t — I won’t stay like this. It has to come off!_

“Peter!” Flash implored. “Stop moving!”

“Dude, you ever see mice in a gum trap?” Davis reasoned with him. “It ain’t pretty. Unless you want to lose pieces of your face I suggest you let the big guys handle the degunking process.”

“I can’t — I can’t breathe!” Peter gasped out, muscles screaming his his shoulder as he wrenched one arm. 

“Yes, you can!” Flash yelled. “Peter, look at me! Just do what I do!” He seized a lungful of air, releasing it slowly, beckoning with cuffed hands for Peter to do the same. 

One breath in. It spurted from Peter’s throat, sharp pants echoing behind, another lance ripping along his skull as he gained an inch from the wall.

“Stop moving!” the two watchers shouted. 

“Peter — Palatine — P-Pal — can I call you Pal? Hey, you listening? Peter, Pal, can we pretend we don’t hate each other for a few minutes? I promise I’ll go back to dunking you in the fountains after we get back, we just gotta get through this.”

The soft voice slowly broke the haze of panic, and Peter became aware of a new crimson haze slowly dripping over his right eye. Flash looked equally stricken with fear and horror. 

Running a tongue over his split lip, Peter said numbly, “What....? I don’t… hate you…”

Releasing a shuddering breath, Flash rasped, “Yeah, I don’t … hate you either. I mean, you’re dweeb and a freak, but … we’re Jedi, right? We’re above all that?”

Cognizance settled in sharp throbs in his lip, scalp and arms. Detachedly, Peter stared at the blood dripping from his right hand. “Get this off of me,” he pleaded.

“You have to keep still,” Flash urged him. “It’s just going to be a bit longer… Pal… Palmary… Palmarian…”

“I can’t un’rstand a word y’r saying,” Peter whined. 

“It’s just gobbledigook, don’t worry about it,” Davis said. “Hey, Boss! The kid is literally tearing himself apart!”

“No, no, shhh,” Flash hushed as Peter sucked in a reedy gasp, bolting as his panic revived. “It’s okay, Palladian. Just picture yourself back home. The sun’s going down over the left spire of the temple, there's the fountains and a thousand water drops hitting the duracrete….”

_Get! It! Off!_ Something yanked on his neck and _ripped_ , and he still couldn’t move his head. 

“... Be a happy cloud, you’re floating, you’re free — oh kark, Peter… your braid….”

“Hey… hey, Kid,” Davis said, his voice a buzzing hum as grey splotches swamped the pain. “Can I talk for a few minutes? I know I ain’t a counselor, but my nephew, he calms down when I tell him stories. Can I tell you a story, Peter?”

_Just get me down,_ **_please_** _, I’m sorry, I won’t web up anyone ever again, please, please don’t leave me here to die._

“My mum’s from Nal Hutta, which is a really rum place to grow up, but she’s tough, and she always told me yarns about the Jedi and how they’d sneak into the outer rim planets to free people who’d been brought there against their will. She didn’t answer to nobody but herself, but she saw a lot of hurting people, and these Jedi would swoop in there with blazing swords and overthrow the powers and get whole families onto refugee ships. Mum kept up with most of ‘em… made sure they were actually getting into safe places.”

“That’s… that’s not how the Jedi work,” Flash interrupted. “We don’t blaze into places, or overthrow syndicates. We’re peacekeepers.”

“Yeah, well these were Jedi,” Davis said mulishly. “And they came in a big red ship and anyone who stood in their way got shot up or stabbed through. It’s all in her holorecordings.”

The ‘Venger’s red,” Peter murmured.

Flash huffed nervously. “So what, Master Stark just runs a bender and kills people? You probably mixed us up with the Sith." 

“Nah, I’ve seen Sith,” Davis stated. “They’re no better than dougs; tearing up a peaceful town and turning living souls into carbon dust. I ain’t siding with no Sith lords.”

“But we — we fight the Sith!” Flash argued. “Why enslave us when we can grow into our powers and take them down?”

“Ain’t siding with no Jedi, neither.” Davis shrugged. “I just want the kid to stop hurting himself.”

It wasn’t working, but Peter was too tired to argue that. He blinked once, twice, then let his eyes stay closed. _It’s not happening. I’m not here. I’m on The Avenger, it’s a dark room, Master Stark’s going to come and get me up, and this won’t be real._ Cool stickiness trickled into his palm, down his temple, from the stinging flare where Tony had woven the braid. _I’m not — I can’t — it’s just dark in here, I’m tucked in… safe… Master Stark’s making flatcakes and Dum-E’s dumping the batter over his head…_

He thought he felt a nudge against his temple, a faint whine of _Where? Where? Tell me! Tell me! Peter!_ but the only impression in his mind was the dulling scrabble to escape and a void where the warm sense of belonging used to be found. _Master Stark, please find me… please get me out..._

“Peter. Palinode. Palinola. _Pal._ You gotta keep it together. It'll just be a little longer, I swear!”

“Hey Tinkerer, why don’t we just try cutting this off me now? I think everybody’s got the picture. No harm done.”

“Peter. Peter, please. You’re… you’re freaking out and it’s scaring _me._ ”

“Davis! Batten down back there; we got a bogey on our tail.”

“Whoah now, Kid — Flash kid — what did I tell you, _sit back against the wall_. He ain’t going nowhere.”

“What’s happening?” 

Rumbling in the wall behind him, rattling underfoot. 

“I told you they’d call the bloody Jedi!”

“You got a problem, put a bolt through their skulls and have done with it! I’m navigating a ripple fire maze up here!”

“Okay, we gotta go, I did _not_ sign up to be space barbecue!”

“Shocker, get the shuttle loaded. Leave the haul. We’re scrubbing this one.”

“No, no — it’s cool man, I’ll stay with the freighter just don’t — _YEAAAAHWW!”_

A fountain of red, broken sobs, four figures hustling from sight. The revving of a small engine leaving the ship, and canon fire changing course. 

“Oh kriff, oh kriff,” Flash moaned, rocking in place. “They — they cut his hand off — oh kriff, we’re going to die in here, we’re never getting back home — Peter, wait — don’t — Just _stop already!”_

“I’m not… dying… pinned to… a wall!” Peter grunted, tearing back and forth. Fabric shredded and warmth built on his neck. _Get out get out get out I won’t die here let me go!_

The scream of peeling durasteel and pelting boots. A timid, mechanized feminine trill. “Boss, they’re in here….”

Pelting boots. Charcoal cloak thrown over crimson leather armor banded in gold. 

“Peter… Peter, stop. Peter.” Warm hands cupping his cheek and shoulder, bracing him in place. _No, no, please, get it off,_ _let go!_

“Cap!”

Peter jounced at the yell, finally latching onto frazzled brown eyes. Shadowed circles, hardened stress lines, burn-tinged fingers carding through his hair, holding him in place “Master Stark,” he whispered, a fit of trembling seizing his words. 

“Hold still, Pete. Can you do that for me?” Tony coaxed, prying experimentally at the reddened gum latched to Peter’s shoulder. “Cap, where are you?”

“He’s stabilizing the boarding lock with Sam.” The unhurried voice accompanied a silver-toned android. No, it was a cyborg, Peter sluggishly calculated after a second look. The left side of the body gleamed under chromium plating, thin silver wires snaking across the forehead and the bridge of the nose, but the pale blue eyes and flesh hand were distinctly human. His tread was soundless despite the mechanical swing of micro-gyros in artificial limbs, and there was nothing robotical in his voice as he leaned behind Tony and asked, “What are we looking at?”

“Some sort of adhesive,” Tony grated out, tension shaking in his fingers as he prodded the tacky residue. “It must have set fast, they would’ve had to hold him here to make the bond, but it wasn’t instant or else he’d be flat against the wall. My guess is a twenty-four hour set point with a thirty second bonding window. Typical plexiglass sealant. It’ll come off, but it might take some work.”

“Don’t look, but there’s a hand latched to the wall,” the cyborg said with morbid serenity.

“Are you going to make yourself useful, Clubhand, or are you going to criticize the decor while this ship falls apart?” Tony snapped. 

“All right, give me room to work here.” The silver-lanced face was gentle as the cyborg took center space in Peter’s line of vision. “Peter, it’s going to be okay. My name is Bucky. We’re going to get you out of here.”

“He’s got a collar,” Tony said, mangling an oath. “Get that off first. Force, I hate slavers.”

“You’re a Jedi, you know hate works,” Bucky murmured, silver fingers pressing gradually on the collar until the metal _crunched_ and swung off in two pieces.

The Force slammed back into place, life forms flashing into his sense of awareness, aching cold and _so much pain_ lighting every nerve. Bucky swerved out of his line of sight as Tony swarmed in, pressing his forehead to Peter’s, murmuring consolations as the bond screamed out, _I’m here! I’m here. Calm. You’re not alone._

Sobbing, Peter ducked into the hand on his cheek. “Please, get me out of here.”

“Barnes, _now!”_ Tony growled. 

“Hold him still,” Bucky warned, tucking in the fingers of his cyborg arm and flicking out a thin vibroblade. The edges whined, _thunk-thunk-thunking_ as they resisted the unfinished durabond resin, and Bucky grimaced. “It’d be easier if you Jedi didn’t wear so many layers. Hard to tell where everything is.”

“Less talking, more rescuing,” Tony barked. He shifted against Peter, dominating his limited vision and hiding the vibroblade’s activity. “You’re doing just great, Spidey. Five more minutes, tops. You won’t even notice he’s done.”

The sound ceased momentarily and Bucky shifted his feet. “So he is Mary’s son.”

“Is that supposed to mean something, or is this really going to come out when there’s a padawan trapped on a crashing freighter?” Tony said darkly.

The screeching continued. “Just wondering.”

“Not your business.” _Safe, safe, I’m here,_ soothed the whispered litany into the bond. “The sooner we get these kids back to the temple, the better.”

Fabric tore, limp shreds dangling against Peter’s arm, and he realized belatedly that his hand was resting at his side. He curled it tightly against his chest, a sharp whine piercing his throat, and Tony grabbed his hand. 

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay. Still got all four limbs, see? I told you we could do it.”

“The head’s going to be the hard part,” Bucky commented. “He’s going to lose some hair.”

“Did you major in traumatizing children, or is that just a side effect of the nanobots drilling into your brain?” Tony said savagely. “Take the whole fragging wall if you have to, just get him out of here!”

Movement in the corner accompanied a brusque yet chipper voice, and in a moment Master Brunnhilde stood up with Flash, the latter rubbing his freed hands and neck. “Hate to break it to you boys, but this ship is two clicks outside of the atmosphere. Better get a move on it.”

“Are you offering faster service?” Tony retorted. 

“Well, I know that durasealants within a twenty-four hour window will loosen under a solvent,” Brunnhilde said. “Standard countermeasures for a patch job gone wrong. Every ship should have one. Give me a moment.”

“See, that’s called practical application on the battlefield,” Tony said. “I say the kid needs help and Team Cap pulls out a lethal weapon, while Team Sparkles gets the stuff I asked for when we first started this dosh.”

“You didn’t ask….” Flash quailed under the master’s glare, rubbing anxiously at his chaffed wrists. 

“Ah, finally. Somebody who speaks basic,” Tony said, shooing Bucky aside as Brunnhilde approached, shaking up a plastic jug. “Don’t worry, Peter, this’ll all be over in a moment. You won’t feel a thing.”

“That’s if it doesn’t dissolve organic material,” Brunnhilde suggested.

“It doesn’t, and don’t you dare speak like that in front of my padawan,” Tony said. He grabbed the jug and stripped off his cloak, soaking the fabric before tucking it around Peter’s head. The harsh smell plunged through Peter’s senses, stripping away Tony’s voice, burying him in a haze of white lights and sharp sounds and harsh chemical fumes.

“He’s convulsing — !”

“.... Get that last leg there, I don’t care if….”

“— the kark was I supposed to know he’s sensitive to….”

“.... bleeding….”

“....told you to cut his leg free, not splice it, how is that….”

“.... lucky you installed that tracker…”

“.... Peter. Peter, can you….”

“.... can’t keep doing this to an old man. You’re grounded. For life.”

Peter blinked slowly, bright lights cutting into his vision, and stiffened when he felt something tether his wrist. No. No, he thought it was real, the return of the Force, the rescue, the promise of freedom — 

“Whoa, whoah! Easy, Spiderling!” 

Kicking out against the restraint, dodging as it fell away, Peter scrabbled for cover, tucking himself into the corner of a dark space, tightening his limbs _small, small, small, unnoticeable, hiding, safe where prying eyes will never seek…_

A sigh filled the room before the voice muttered, “I’m getting too old for this.” Planting his hands and knees on the floor, Tony peered into what Peter realized was a medical supply cupboard and coaxed, “You going to stay in there, or can we talk about this?”

Staring hazily at rows of capsized bottles and bacta tubes, Peter slowly uncurled himself, surprised when his right leg buckled in a throbbing, lifeless sprawl. Bandages covered his arms and peeked out from the edges of his trousers. 

“I’m… in the Halls of Healing?” he realized dazedly.

“In the cupboard, to be exact,” Tony said. “Looks cozy, I’d love to join you, but it’s a little too cramped for someone my size. Think we can negotiate and meet halfway?”

Outside was bright and cold and filled with open spaces where he couldn’t move, couldn’t run away. Peter shook his head. _Please, no, don’t put me back there. I won’t web anyone again I swear don’t leave me to die alone…._

“Okay, budge over,” Tony’s voice broke into his panic. The man groaned as he wriggled into the cupboard, lanky limbs pulled up to his chest and neck craned at a painful angle. “Honestly, I don’t see what you spiders enjoy about cramped spaces, but each sentient to its own. If I stay here will you promise to breathe normally?”

Peter barreled into his side, the smell of fusion smoke and sage and smeared bacta cream burying the memory of blood and chemical fog, contact and closeness soothing the lingering wash of _alone, alone, caged until the final breath, or else be torn apart in a last bid for freedom._

“You so deserve a lecture for leaving the temple grounds without permission,” Tony hummed, running two fingers lightly through Peter’s hair. He skipped over patches that felt sticky and tacked with bandage strips. “But I think you’ve had enough of a fright. I’m making you your own droid, by the way; someone who will report to me if you plan on doing anything stupid in the future.”

“I c-couldn’t get out,” Peter stuttered, clinging to Tony’s arm. “I tried — Flash was yelling — it hurt _so much_.”

“Shhhh. It’s just a nightmare now,” Tony whispered, trailing his finger past the bacta patch smothering Peter’s cheek. “Healer Cho says it won’t even scar. We’ll put a new braid in once you’re up to it.”

A new spurt of anxiety stuttered in Peter’s chest. “I lost the beads,” he mourned. “And Aunt May’s thread.”

“We can get more,” Tony promised. “Seriously, I’m not sending my Spidey out without a tracker. If I hadn’t installed one in your braid….”

The implications hung heavily in the musty darkness. 

“Wh-what about Flash?” Peter wondered. “Is he okay?”

“Right as rain, and already boasting to the younglings about his heroic efforts to keep you alive,” Tony said. “You might think it was all his idea to stage a rescue.”

Peter groaned. 

“Hey, existential crises are about growth, not rebooting the personality,” Tony said. “I think you both learned a valuable lesson about teamwork. Sometimes you gotta work with the other guys to make it out alive.”

“Like you and Master Rogers?” Peter guessed. 

“I won’t deny we’ve had our differences,” Tony admitted. “And I don’t approve of his external contacts, or his life choices. But when it comes down to a mission… I’m glad to have him around.”

“Flash did good,” Peter said shakily. “He kept t-talking. Distracted me.”

“I’ll put in a good word for him with Brunnhilde,” Tony considered. “She’s looking for a padawan.”

Peter chortled morbidly. “I lose my braid and Flash gets a master. Are all existential crises like this?”

Tucking Peter securely under his chin, Tony murmured, “Just the ones with a happy ending.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flash’s Dictionary of Peter Parker Pseudonyms:
> 
> Protomorphic — primordial; primitive   
> Pulicoid — like a flea  
> Putid — decayed; fetid  
> Pteridomaniac — someone who is passionate for ferns (Flash sees all, including the fluffy monster plant that Tony and Peter dragged into the temple)  
> Pantopragmatic — a meddler in someone else’s business
> 
> Bonus — Flash’s “Nice List”
> 
> Palatine — having royal authority over a region  
> Palmary — meritorious (deserving reward or praise)  
> Palmarian — pre-eminent (famous and respected within a particular sphere or profession)  
> Palladian — one of wisdom/learning  
> Palinode — poem in which earlier retrospection is withheld  
> Palinola — compulsive repetition of an act until it is perfect
> 
> Chapter Notes: I had the unfortunate circumstance of discovering a freshly trapped and terrified mouse in a sticky trap. The gum is so harsh that any insect or animal stuck inside will tear itself to pieces as it starves to death. Unfortunately, the mouse I discovered couldn't be removed from the glue. This is my screen rant.


	7. Seek and Protect (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trusting his instinct, Peter tries his first solo op. Things don't go as planned.

“Oh, you poor thing,” May cooed, cringing in sympathy when Peter turned his head to show her the over-ear clip Tony had made to secure his braid while his tender scalp healed. “I’m sure your hair will grow back soon. At least you didn’t lose all of it.”

“If I were Stark, I would’ve scrapped that droid by now,” Ben grumbled, shifting closer to share his wife’s space in the hologram. “That much electricity could have killed you.”

“It wasn’t Dum-E’s fault,” Peter insisted, nervously smoothing down the uneven fringes of his curls. “I shouldn’t have tried to replace his servomotor without Master Stark’s help.”

It felt Sithy to lie to his aunt and uncle, but Tony’s first rule after “The Sticky Wall Incident” was _Don't Tell Aunt May._

“She’ll sleep much better thinking you’re prancing around the galaxy zapping droids and taking collections for the temple,” Tony insisted when he caught Peter dialing Alderaan. “Just blame it on Dummy. The droid can handle it.”

The story behind the healing callouses on Peter’s face and hands? Dum-E. It was all the droid’s fault. Big electric surge that took out half the lights in the temple. How lucky that his spider genes circulated the charge without leaving significant damage.

“When are you coming home again?” May pleaded. “Now that we can contact you I hate it when you’re away.”

“May, he’s a Jedi,” Ben said tolerantly. “He can’t spring halfway across the galaxy every time we want a family visit.”

“I just asked if he could stop by for a weekend,” May declared. “I’m not the one who refurnished the entire guest wing ten minutes after their ship took off.”

Peter huffed softly, the tip of his ears turning pink. “You don’t have to do anything special for me. Tony has a bunk set on The Avenger.”

“Not one word, Peter. It’s Alderaanian hospitality,” May insisted. “Really though, Ben — blue walls?”

“Stark said it was his favorite color,” Ben said.

“This is exactly why you’re supposed to talk to me before changing the guest rooms!”

“Well, you wouldn’t exactly get off the com with Soren.”

“Because I didn’t expect to revamp the entire house in one afternoon!”

“It was one wing, May.”

“I bought cream paint, Ben! Cream! Something that matched the furniture!”

“He’s a teenager growing up in a monastery. Let him live it up a little.”

“Is that the glam team?” Tony interrupted, popping over Peter’s shoulder. He waved at the hologram. “Hi, Aunt May!”

“Tony Stark, if that blundering bucket of bolts endangers my nephew one more time —“

“He’s scrap metal,” Tony swore, holding up his hand. “Knight’s honor. Is that a new scarf? Pepper said you couldn’t beat Cloud City for style but that looks like silkenfrond; it’s almost impossible to weave. Is that silkenfrond?”

“Actually, it’s just a little something from the market,” May said, brushing down the shiny fabric. “You should bring Pepper with you the next time you visit. We can have a girls day out while you two and Ben connect.”

“Mm, Maypepper set loose on the market during the festival of Ginger Blossoms,” Tony tutted. “Pretty sure Fury will have me listening to the code in song verse after he sees that budget cut. You know I’m already on the naughty list.”

“Oh come off it, Tony. You know she’ll love it,” May said, laughing. “Speaking of which, we do expect Peter for Founding Day, at least. It’s part of his heritage.”

“Consider it on my calendar,” Tony said. He made a show of checking his chrono and announced, “Hate to cut the party short, but Pete and I need to skip out. Got a ship to catch.”

“Another mission?” May sighed. “Don’t you boys ever take a break?”

“You know the drill: no life, no leisure, no leniency,” Tony rattled off. “It’s an easy op. I promise green meadows and plenty of sunshine, and no blaster repartees.”

“Call me once you get back safely,” May insisted. 

Ben rolled his eyes. “May, he doesn’t need to —“

“I worry!”

“I’ll send a holovid as soon as we return,” Tony promised. “Say goodbye to your aunt and uncle, Spidey.“

“Remember to pack your thermal cloak this time and don’t touch anything that smells funny and make sure you pack your snacks for between meals and don’t let Tony bully you around —“

“Bye, Aunt May!” Tony said merrily, waggling his fingers in farewell before flicking off the hologram. He spun away, tossingPeter the cloak he’d flung into the corner. “Come on, engine’s running. I had Jarvis pack you a lunch.”

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, tugging on the cloak and gathering up his comlink, datapad and lightsaber. “I thought the council put us on probation for a month.”

“ _You’re_ on probation, because you trespassed on a private salvage depot and got yourself and another padawan shanghaied,” Tony corrected, swinging back into the doorway to fix Peter with a stern glare. “This isn’t a mission, though. Pack your duds — we’ll be gone a week or so.”

He left without further explanation, leaving Peter scrambling to stuff a satchel. Spare tunic, tooth powder, personal headset and a bar of lemongrass soap from Aunt May; there wasn’t much to bring along. The life of a Jedi was meant to be frugal. (And Tony already had all the day-to-day luxuries stowed on The Avenger, including the entire holovid collection of Cataclysm Prism, so it wasn't like he needed much.)

“Where are we going this time?” Peter prodded, tossing his satchel into the holochess nook while Tony fiddled with the thermostat.

“Somewhere mundane,” Tony said. He smacked the side of the panel twice, grunting in satisfaction when it beeped and started to hum. “Every Jedi needs a break from all the excitement, so I thought we’d try another green planet. Obscure, low-tech, swampy... you’ll love it. There’s a lakeside cabin and real cooking and I promise to send up a menu ahead of time so they don’t slip mint into the linguini."

“I like mint,” Peter hinted edgily. Really, they had no grounds for this argument, except that maaaybe he would randomly display an allergy for fresh herbs. Tony had no right to take his desserts away.

“And I like my Spidey, so let’s cut the carping and appreciate a long, full existence,” Tony said. “You can try it when you’re twenty and old enough to take on your own padawan.”

“How old were you when you became a master?” Probably not a good question. More like a really, really bad jab at the past. Peter saw Tony’s shoulders curl in and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Not old enough,” Tony said briskly. “Actually, mastership starts at about twenty-five now, maybe later. Depends on your species — humans aren’t known to evolve important brain matter until their thirties. How’s your Huttese coming? Did Jarvis teach you any greetings for diplomats?”

“Uh... I can ask where the docking bay is,” Peter said, falling into the topic switch without complaint. “I can name thirteen droid components, say yes, no and keep off, and list the ingredients in paprikash.”

The wounded look sent his way made him realize he’d missed some important vernacular. “Paprikash,” Tony repeated, popping the ‘p.’ “You know, when I said “practical use in the field,” I actually meant colors, introductions, where’s the refresher... unless date night on Ilum is on your agenda, which — you’re too young.”

“And attachments are forbidden,” Peter added dutifully.

“You say stuff like that and you’re going to end up on the A-Team’s no-call list,” Tony warned him, palming Peter’s datapad and pulling up his assignments. “What did I say when we started? The code is a guideline for best results, not a dictatorship. It’s also a devious soundtrack used to brainwash younglings. Here.”

Tapping the screen, where a list of phrases sans translations flashed in and out in bright red lettering, Tony instructed, “Memorize a few of these. When the patriarch of the house greets you, just quote one of them. Just tell him its an honorific; one of the songs of your people.”

“Nek sch-schutta maya?” Peter sounded out, perplexed. “Isn’t schutta —“

“It’s not a cuss word unless Pepper overhears it,” Tony said airily. “Seriously, though; don’t ever repeat that in front of Pepper. She once killed a general with a detached droideka arm. She’ll jettison me in space if she thinks I’m misappropriating your education.”

“Where _are_ we going?” Peter asked, eyes narrowing as he studied his master’s attire. Typical dark robes were more inclined towards sable today, richly trimmed in the sleeve and softer in appearance than synthfabric. Worn boots had been shined to a gleam, and a fully extended lightsaber swung like a scarlet ornament at Tony's hip. Peter suddenly felt grossly underdressed.

“Nowhere special,” Tony said blithely, snatching away Peter’s datapad again and swiping through the dictionary. “Just a small homestead. Oh, Hosnian Prime manners, by the way. Mind your sirs and ma’ams; these people live it up. And don’t let on that you’re learning Huttese. No need to make them think you’re a heathen from the Outer Rim.”

“Really,” Peter said, folding his arms as Tony paced. “I thought you just said —“

“I may not get along with the host,” Tony admitted, “But that doesn’t give you any excuse to play the wookie’s advocate. You know what, let me do all the talking. Just smile and say please and thank you and be nice to small people. Here: dinner etiquette for beginners. Brush up.”

Holy kriff, they were meeting another diplomat. Or the planet’s deity. Or another obscure relative.

“I should change this,” Peter realized, rubbing his thumb along his rumpled tunic.

“It’s not like we’re hosting the chancellor; just be yourself,” Tony insisted. “But definitely change that tunic. There’s spares in the sanisteam cupboard.”

“What is this place called again?” Peter asked as he searched the walk-in wardrobe for something that would complement Tony’s attire. Whoah. That was a lot of synthsilk. When did Tony find all this fancy stuff?

“Skygazer Hill,” Tony called back. “It’s a retirement city. Wealthy snobs and small grandchildren. You’ll fit in just fine.”

That sounded vaguely demeaning. Peter debated between a cobalt robe that Rhodey must have snuck into the closet, and classic cream. 

“Blue!” Tony declared.

Peter wondered if his master would have a heart attack if he ever showed up in maroon. (Honestly, half of Tony’s equipment was red; it wasn’t like the color was of the Sith.) Feeling a bit impish, he grabbed the cobalt set and a scarlet scarf. Definitely not code compliant, but they looked like they would fit him perfectly. Someone had scoured the markets on the sly.

“These aren’t standard,” he debated, throwing off his tunic and wriggling into fabric that pooled like taffeta in his hands. He spread his arms, appreciating the unrestricted stretch. “How did you know my —“

“Pepper,” Tony stated. “Don’t wear those in the temple, by the way. Missions only. No need to give the impression that there’s favoritism among the masters.”

“Yeah, because Master Hawley totally doesn’t wear shimmersilk,” Peter snarked, looping the scarf the way he’d seen Aunt May wear hers. 

“I did not hear that, and if you’re smart, neither will Master Pierce,” Tony remarked. “Come on over, let me take a look.”

Slinging on the robe and examining the sleeves for stains, Peter returned cautiously to the main hull, holding out his hands for assessment. He felt... ornamental. Sophisticated. Not of the Order. 

“C’mere,” Tony said, beckoning impatiently. He fussed with Peter’s scarf, flipping it over both shoulders, and rearranged the cloak. “This is more the fashion for your age. I wouldn’t have chosen red for the suit, but you pull it off.” Patting Peter’s shoulder, he said offhandedly, “Looks good. You’ll pass as Alderaanian, or at least upper Coruscanti.”

“That’s important?” Peter said queasily. “Aren’t we supposed to....”

“Blend in?” Tony interjected. “Pass off as monks? Frugality before finery, I believe the motto is. This isn’t an official mission. You stand there, you look good, you say hi to the natives, you waltz out. We’ll be there two days, tops. Make the most of it.”

Two days of relaxation, dress robes and tidy manners. Was this a resort or a womp rat snare? Neck prickling in anticipation, Peter slid into the holochess nook to scour the holonet for “Stargazer Hill.”

Might as well be prepared.

* * *

Yavin 4. That’s what the holonet said. Homesteads and farmland and sporadic cities. Rudimentary folk.

Gawking at the towering mansion with chromium paneling and entire walls composed of glass, Peter felt like a Lah'mu pauper. He tugged at his scarf, wising he’d gone with the navy. 

“By the way, it’s Mister and Misses Stark to you,” Tony said, untucking and smoothing Peter’s braid. “Don’t worry about where you come from. For all they know, you’re just a kid from the temple.”

It was the first time Tony hinted at concealing his blood. Breathing deeply, Peter turned his wrists inward and nodded. 

“Your relatives,” he realized.

“Mom and Pops,” Tony said with an uncomfortable grimace. “Nice folk. Just fancy. You good with kids?”

“Uh... yeah, sure,” Peter answered. It wasn’t like there was a shortage of younglings in the temple. They just tended to... avoid dark spots in the Force. “Why?”

“No reason,” Tony said. “Just making sure. Come on, pick up your feet. I called ahead of time; they’re expecting us an hour ago.”

The mansion was more intimidating up close. Curtains of grapevines and white flowers strung the courtyard walls, statues of stern warriors lined the walkway, and blue stones encased in white metal created the path. Alderaan had archways and waterfalls. The peaked roofs and entwining gates of the Stark mansion were both harsh and elegant, cold and entrancing. Finery that seemed foreign to the jungle planet, indeed.

“Is this what Coruscant looked like in the beginning?” Peter wondered, edging his feet carefully lest he scuff the blue path.

“Nah. Dad’s just been around,” Tony said. “He’s an architect — and an inventor. He hit on Peggy for a while; whole council thought she’d ditch the Jedi path. Surprised I found my way to Coruscant?”

“You’re really Yavanian,” Peter huffed, shaking his head. 

“You doubted it.”

“It’s just....” Unrefined, unparalleled, revolutionary: that was Tony Stark. The family mansion was posh, but the planet had little to show for a man with such a dynamic personality. 

“I like the simple things,” Tony said, shrugging it off. “Still water, floppy things that swim, cozy neighbors who can’t get off the front... porch....”

He stopped so suddenly that Peter nearly tripped into him. Wariness pulsed around them in a sudden wave as voices drifted from just ahead. 

“Maria, Howard, I promise — I’m doing everything I can.....”

Tony held out one hand subtly, holding Peter back as he stepped closer to the house. “Never thought I’d see you outside of Cardota,” he said with tart politeness.

A bald athurian decked in flowing white cerlin turned around, astonishment quickly fleeing to serenity in eyes that startled Peter. Blue was definitely an anomaly for the species.

“Tony Stark,” the athurian said, folding gloves hands behind his back. “Your timing is... exquisite.”

“You knew I’d be here,” Tony said, jutting his chin at the human couple standing to the side of the porch. “I thought we agreed: no business during visitations.”

“Senator Stane is here by request,” the human male said gruffly. “If you picked up your com, you would’ve known to come next week.”

Slicked, greying hair and stern brown eyes. That definitely had to be Mister Stark, which put the woman beside him as Tony’s mother. Peter ducked into a respectful bow, mouth dry.

“Oh, you did find another one,” Maria said, cool eyes sweeping over Peter with unnerving dismissal. 

“Procreators, Padawan; Mom and Pops, Peter,” Tony introduced brusquely. “Why is Obi here?”

“We’re settling a matter,” Howard said shortly. “You should come at a later time.”

“I'm here now,” Tony retorted. “Love the welcoming committee, by the way. Peter and I will just pop in, you keep doing your thing. Where’s the Mark I?”

Maria jolted. “Tony, now isn’t a good time. We’re not ready for company.”

“Stane’s here,” Tony argued. “Don’t be dismal, he’s just a padawan. He won’t ruin the carpets.”

“We didn’t expect you until next week,” Maria insisted. Peter had never seen such cold brown eyes. “Come back later.”

Pausing midway up the steps, Tony spread his hands. “Well, now I just feel unwanted. What’s the matter — stock crash overnight? C’mon, I just want to see the kid.”

“Morgan is not here, Tony,” Stane said with reluctant finality.

Cold flooded the bond. 

“What.”

Closing her eyes, Maria explained, “We were going to tell you, we just wanted to be sure —“

“You were going to tell me before, or after everything was hunky-dory?” Tony snapped. “Or were you going to wait until it was time to announce a funeral?”

“You’re overreacting,” Howard said.

“How long has she been missing?” Tony yelled.

“Four days,” Stane said. “We would’ve contacted you within a week, Tony. We just wanted to be sure of the facts, first. Morgan has a lot of friends —"

“She doesn’t have friends, you don’t let her out,” Tony rebuked, turning on his parents. “She has the finest schooling, the most secure gated community, and she named her fish Eddie so she’d have someone to talk to. She never leaves the compound, so _where is she?”_

“Calm down, Tony,” Stane soothed. “We have the best —“

“No, don’t tell me to calm down! I trust you with one thing and you can’t even send me a log note to say get here sooner. I could’ve scrambled a team weeks ago —"

“We don’t need any more _freaks_ on the compound,” Howard cut in. “You entrusted us with our granddaughter, and we _will_ find her. Isn’t a Jedi supposed to exercise patience?”

“Because that’s such a strong trait in our family.”

“We didn’t ask to be saddled with your mistakes.”

“Oh, so she’s a mistake now? Is my existence a mistake? You want to choose what beings have a right to take part in the galaxy?”

“Don’t take that tone with your father, Tony.”

“I’m sorry, I thought we were in crisis mode. I should mind my P’s and Q’s, especially after you _lost_ a four year old.”

“If you had minded your training —"

“Remind me how you and Mom got together?”

“This is not our fault, Tony!”

“Because it’s obvious you two can’t be trusted with the simplest —"

“Enough.” Senator Stane captured the argument, white cape swishing around him as an angel of Iego had graced the planet. “Tony, we will find Morgan _alive_ , and she will be returned safely. This matter is already being handled by our top security teams. _If_ ,” he emphasized as Tony sucked in a breath to protest, “You want to assist the search party, I will certainly welcome your efforts. However, I can’t promise the security force will welcome entrepreneurs. You and Peter will have to scout alone.”

“We’ve already cleared her favorite hideaways,” Maria said. “We searched the meadows, the crystal ridges, the lake —"

“Yeah, yeah, you covered the minimal requirements for noble caregivers,” Tony snapped. “Peter and I will take it from here. We’ll start in the house; check for any unusual signatures.”

“You’re not disrupting our home with that inner thrall,” Howard warned him.

“Howard, let him do his thing,” Stane beseeched. “He’s a Jedi; they have sensory perceptions we don’t fully understand. If he doesn’t find anything he can check the lowlands.”

“Let him do what he wants,” Maria agreed, gently plucking her husband’s sleeve. “Obadiah is right: he may find something the droids missed.”

“Top security in the system and you can’t keep track of one child,” Tony growled, squeezing past his parents to barrel inside. “And you wonder how I lost a padawan.”

* * *

Freaks. That was what it always came down to. Skilled soldiers, brilliant minds, each Jedi fighting for the same cause; cast down because they were considered _unnatural_. Because some species paraded in white robes and others hid their deformities under long sleeves. Peter wondered, if the Starks had known what he was, would they have even let him inside the house?

“Footage was clean, no tampering with the security droids,” Tony rattled off to Jarvis. “I need you to run a scan on the planet’s surface. Fifty kilometer increments. Check out anything that weighs over fifteen kilograms.”

“That is a time-consuming process, and the average woolamander weighs at least eighteen kilograms,” Jarvis argued. “My optical scanners will be far more effective if I act an independent search party.”

“I need you on the ship,” Tony insisted. “The scanners have a wider range and she’ll take you further into the wetlands. Peter and I will check the forest settlements.”

“I know that familial strife has tainted your relationship,” Jarvis said cautiously, “But they are your parents, and they are sensible beings. Don’t you think they’ve already taken such measures?” 

“Force-sensors,” Tony said, tapping his temple. “Droids can't detect everything. Come on, Peter. Time’s a-wasting.”

Barking orders seemed to be the only control he had. Peter felt the bolt drawn across their bond, as if Tony was trying to shield him from the conflict, but flashes stabbed his mind nonetheless. Terror for one who was too small. Dread for what he would find. Despair of returning with unbearable news. Tony swept from _The Avenger_ with harsh strides, the very air teeming around him.

Fear tortured the senses, closing off the peace of the Force and nurturing self-reliance and impulse. There was a sensible purpose in refusing attachments, Peter realized. A neutral Jedi remained calm under pressure. Terror was but one step away from wrath.

“Master Stark,” Peter called, jogging up the sloping craig. He pushed against the mental barrier, trying to impress the need for stillness and insight. “What if we —“

“Not now, Pete,” Tony said sharply. “I need you to stretch out in the Force. Every rock, tree branch and molehill shelters some form of life. Look for anything larger than the average possum — and stay close. There's worse than howlers in the jungle.”

Peter didn’t know what howlers were, or what could be worse. He skipped over a soggy patch of ground, imagining the Force as a scope, enhancing his senses. Insects droned in swarms, small mammals scuttled to higher branches, flat leaves fluttered. He felt the pulse of life, lazy and reposed in the steamy heat. The back of his neck settled into a nagging itch, but that wasn’t much to go by — he was sweating out in three layers and boots, _everything_ itched.

“Stop here.”

The quiet order staggered Peter midstride and he looked around, rubbing the sticky patch at the back of his neck. (Gross.)

“Lightsaber,” Tony said calmly.

Activating the yellow blade, Peter tuned his senses to that which was missing. His palms felt cold. The insects above them had gone silent, yet branches creaked overhead. The Force settled around a massive form. Lumbering, bulbous body, sensitive limbs, clacking mandibles. 

“Just so you know, this is nothing personal,” Tony jibed dully, purple energy crackling before him just as the _thing_ launched from the upper branches.

“Holy kriff!” Peter choked. Purple hairy spikes, eight flailing legs, four hollow eyes in a squat head. He was literally facing off a giant spider.

The Force really did have a sense of irony.

“Just your average jumping spider,” Tony said, ducking under the mandibles to hack off one of the monster’s legs. “No webs, just a mean upper attack.”

“This is so _not_ okay!” Peter protested, darting to catch the spider from behind. It was fast; one spiked leg tearing through Tony’s sleeve as the master lunged back. “You couldn’t have mentioned something before we landed?”

“What, so you expect to be related?” A Force-shove billowed the spider into a tree, buying Tony more ground. “Spiders are insentient predators. No comparison.”

“Yeah, ‘cause four eyes would definitely up the creep zone,” Peter said, swerving as the spider darted just over his blade. Mandibles clicked over his scarf, tearing it in half.

“And you’re a normal padawan?” Tony retorted. “Make like you have superpowers and web it!”

Because he totally had time to adjust his sleeves and aim for the head! (Blood on the wall, Davis yelling, tearing in his scalp as he tried to yank free.) Peter yelped as massive weight suddenly trounced him in his distraction, hisses drowning out Tony’s shouts, prickly mandibles flashing in front of his face. He hollered and swung blindly, grazing beady eyes. A tortured shriek, a clawed leg stabbing above his shoulder, a purple glare skewering the monstrous head.

Eight legs curled in as fog eclipsed black eyes. The bulk fell off of Peter and air returned to his lungs. Even as he deactivated his lightsaber Tony hauled him upright, frazzled brown eyes afflicted with heavier words. “What was that about?”

“I didn’t see it,” Peter said, brushing putrid mud off his palms. “It was too fast.”

“You froze,” Tony corrected. “See, this is exactly what we’re training for. A little skittishness is expected in the first battle, but that’s why you follow orders. This?” He ripped Peter’s sleeves open, callously exposing his wrists. “This isn’t just a prop show. You’re skirting your basic instincts. What if I wasn’t here to save you?”

“I couldn’t get them off,” Peter protested, wrapping back the fabric back in place. (Webbing on the wall, hands holding him in place, red welling on the back of his wrists.) 

“So what, do you keep your lightsaber tucked in your satchel?” Yanking out a vibroblade, Tony slashed at the fabric, mercilessly baring Peter’s forearms. “Okay, when we get back, we’re altering the wardrobe. Keep your wrists clean and your hands free. I don’t have time to track two kids on this cursed planet.”

Peter tugged bitterly at the ruined fabric. “Great, well now I’ll attract bugs.”

“Clown cab’s that way if you want it,” Tony snapped, jabbing in the direction of the ship. “I’m sure Jarvis will appreciate help running the scanners.” He waited a moment for Peter’s response, and then swept to his feet. “Come on. Those things have tree dens; gotta make sure they’re clear.”

It wasn’t until Peter clambered into the network of thick limbs and saw Tony examining husks of skin strung over bone that he realized why they ought to check a spider’s web. He leaned over the edge and quietly emptied his stomach. 

“Hey. You’re okay,” Tony murmured, materializing from nowhere and rubbing the space between Peter’s shoulder blades. “First near-death experience is always rough. You won’t make the same mistake.”

Maybe not him, but somewhere on this planet a child might not be so lucky.

Peter hated Yavin 4.

“There’s still plenty of light,” Tony considered, scoping the horizon. “We’ll keep going for now, hole up when it’s dark. I still want to check the settlement up the way. Pep and I brought her there once. She’s smart; she’ll sense a safe zone.”

He sounded like he wanted to feel reassured, but the hollowness in the bond matched the feeling in Peter’s gut.

How could they possibly find one small child on such a hostile planet?

* * *

Tony slept. How, Peter couldn’t fathom. Surely worry would consume the man, leaving him pacing all night. Somehow the Jedi part of him managed to view the situation pragmatically, coupling inapproachable darkness with the necessity of a sound mind.

“Can’t track at night. Too many hunters,” Tony had cautioned, planting a motion sensor at the entrance of a hollow tree and nodding for Peter to bunker down. “First rule of extraction is don’t wear out the rescuer. Get some shuteye. We’ll head out at first light.”

He made it sound so easy. Peter fidgeting against the rough wall, jolting when something crawled across his neck. He flung away a miniatured version of scrabbling legs and plump thorax, shuddering when tiny threads of silk clung to his fingers. It was just a spider. Just a tiny, harmless — kriff it was running back towards him!

Bolting to the opposite side of the cave, Peter frantically brushed down his arms. _Get it off get it off are there any more of them?_

“Sleep,” Tony grumbled, shifting around and curling into the wall. “Put your cloak over your head.”

“It’s fine,” Peter whispered, brushing pebbles and debris away for a clear space. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Just a sleepover on a foreign planet.” The knights never talked about this in their mission regales.

Tony faked a snore.

So not fair. 

Peter wriggled again, grimacing as a root dug into his thigh. A jumping spider’s hiss accompanied a ragged howl. How could he possibly sleep when there were _things_ out there that couldn’t differentiate between sentient life and insensible prey?

Four years old. Misplaced. Alone. 

Rolling over, Peter tugged his hood over his head. Why did sunset have to come so early? They had the Force to guide them; why wait for dawn? 

_Master Stark knows the planet. He must have a plan._

Every minute ticking by was one more lost. They didn’t even know where to look.

Rolling upright, Peter peered at the entrance, flinching as waves of crimson energy flickered. Any creature that tried to pass the barrier would frizzle like a piece of parchment on coals. There was just enough illumination cast by the red glow to see bulbous yellow eyes, flicking tails, scaly flesh of unnameable creatures. Maybe he watched them for hours. Maybe it was only a few minutes.

It was long enough for the monotony to shatter as purple light flashed against the horizon. Peter jumped, squinting into the distance, wondering if was just an illusion.

There, again. Blasts of unnatural energy pulsing in the dark.

Sentient life. Traders or war droids, perhaps. 

If he was a toddler lost in the wilds, he knew where he’d go.

“Master Star....” The name died in his throat. Tony wouldn’t set foot out there until light. He’d made that clear enough. He would listen intently to Peter’s report, make observations, and choose to hold out until morning. 

Purple blazed again, a power swarm against the black night. Certainty pooled in Peter’s limbs. Something deep within told him this was the key, and the masters always said to listen to the prompting of the Force above everything else.

He crept to his feet and stretched out a hand, holding it inches from the energy barrier. A thousand gnat bites crawled along his palm. No way he could deactivate it without Tony noticing. The master could sense a lizard crab scuttling over a log.

But... flexing his hands, Peter craned his neck to see the patch of blue light near the crest of the tree's hollow trunk. Spiders climbed up.

He planted his palms to the bark and lifted one boot. It would be just like the exercises at the temple. He simply had to be quieter, and take care not to shower centipedes on his master's head. No big deal.

One foot and then the next, quiet feet, quiet hands. Something crawled up his wrist and he bit his lip, reminding himself that it was psychological, that something that small couldn’t possibly hurt him (unless it was poisonous, in which case he was probably going to die in agony while Tony panicked). Splinters jabbed his palms and sediment trickled down his rent sleeves. A centipede lashed across the back of his hand and he nearly lost his grip, swallowing a yelp.

_Don’t wake up, don’t wake up,_ he thought at Tony, wondering what it took to seal off a master-padawan bond. He was just going to take a peek, and then he’d come right back. Peter Parker had no interest in dining with the local wildlife tonight.

Empty air met his palm and Peter curled his fingers down, hauling himself over the edge of the knothole. He looked down and immediately swayed. That was... that was pretty high up. Far above the trap of thick foliage and vines, the eerie glow of Yavin Prime flooded the surface with red light. Neighboring moons softened the nightmarish vision, like lilies draped in a crimson bath. Small wonder the creatures on Yavin 4 feasted on blood.

Far from the dangers Tony described, Peter felt... energized. Thermal colors flashed and settled before his eyes, separating warm blood and cold araneae from immobile plant life, accenting the forest in clearer detail than any Force sweep. He swiveled his head, cringing as a conglomeration of unfamiliar sounds battered him from every direction. Growls, yips, chitters, rushing limbs. He ought to feel small; insignificant. One of those things had nearly eaten him already. He should hunker down and stay with Tony.

Foreign energy crackled once more, purple against a red night, seeming all the closer for the height, and decisiveness thrummed in Peter’s blood. He could do this. He could investigate, use the trees to avoid detection, and report back before the jungle infiltrators moved on.

Running along the knobby tree limb, he sprang from the end to the next branch and wavered, arms spread for balance, before he darted again. Easy. The upper branches felt safe, and it was easy to avoid the cloisters of bright color that indicated heat signatures. He laughed, giddy at the feel of warm air rushing through his hair. This... this was right. He was made for the night.

He jumped out, aiming for an extended branch — and missed. Boot scraping uselessly on bark, arms flailing, the ground rushing upon him —

_Master Stark!_

Panic spurred Peter's flailing limbs, frail twigs tearing off in his hands, anything to stop the free fall. Instinctively he reached out, as if he could catch the trees in the Force alone. Silk sprang out and looped over a tree limb —

And he was broken out of the fall, sailing uncoordinatedly to smack into a thick trunk.

“Owwww.” Brushing bark from his face, Peter stared at the web string looped around his fingers. Okay, so that just... worked.

Shaking off the apprehension, he examined the limbs above, tentatively flicking a web over the closest one. It brushed and clung, holding strong when he tugged. Taking a deep breath, Peter skipped tentatively to the next branch, holding tight. 

He swung forward and back, anchored by a wispy thread.

So totally gross, but he was starting to realize the worth in Tony’s training regimens. 

“Okay, I’m a spider,” Peter said shakily, flicking off the web tendril and planting his feet on the edge of the limb. “Spiders jump, stick, and apparently swing on webs. That’s cool.”

No way was he practicing this over the scrap pits.

Grimacing in trepidation, Peter eyed the closest limb, flung out his wrist, and jumped. He yelped as the pendulum’s speed thrust him too far, bashing him into a jutting branch. Okay, so he definitely could have used some practice before exercising on a mission. First steps and all; walking before running.

Shorter, more calculating jumps became tranquilizing, however; numbing the night’s thrill. He needed to go farther. Faster. Higher. He didn’t need the moon to see, as colors materialized in bizarre swirls. Surely he didn’t need his feet to travel.

Huffing in delight, Peter tested a second line even as he sprang out of the first. He whooped as it caught, and pulled in his feet to avoid a vine snare. He was like a woolamander — no better, a spidermander, unfettered by furry feet or a bulging shell. He could outpace any jumping spider. He could — he could rule the night.

He perched on the edge of a white-barked tree, eclipsed in the light of a red gas giant, squinting as artificial light dulled his vision. There was definitely a small outpost down there. Peter made out a cluster of speederbikes, two landspeers and a cargo freighter. Grounded vegetation was squared off by electric panels, keeping back the wildlife. Not a settlement, then. This was a task force, occupying the territory long enough to finish the job before dispersing at the nearest space port. Difficult to track, even more impossible to pin down at the source. Peter grinned. He’d found this one all on his own.

Containing it on the other hand… that was more complicated. He really, really should have brought his master along. Or at least contacted Jarvis. 

“Step one, infiltration, step two, confrontation,” Peter mumbled, quoting one of Master Carol’s lessons. “Never go in ahead of the team. Great job, Peter. Really thought through that one.”

He looked at the cluster of speeders nestled on the outskirts, and then down at his bare wrists. Tony’s words sprang to mind. _“You realize how many tanks would self-combust with a little sticky gunk in their engines?”_

Peter grinned.

* * *

It was way too easy. Like, stupid easy. Convenient branches jabbed over the outpost barrier on all sides. All Peter had to do was let himself down on a line. The Separatist symbol decorated the speeders, segregating them as unlawful equipment, and he simply netted the exhaust pipes with spider goo. Ten gunners down like that. 

Why weren’t they using spider silk on missions?

Peter scuttled behind the freighter, crouching in the shadows. He counted six sentients on the outskirts, three more examining a plasma canon that had a curving, geonosian design. There were probably more inside the freighter; at least five, considering that the landspeeders could hold three soldiers apiece. 

_I can get in there. I just need the right distraction._

“What did I tell you about conducting weapon tests on the surface?”

There. Peter ducked under the freighter’s landing supports, rolling under the landing ramp. All he needed to do was slip inside and….

His jaw dropped as he caught sight of swishy white robes and grey skin.

But that would mean….

“Four more hours,” Senator Stane said curtly. “That’s all the time we needed to stay under the radar, and you want to wake the entire moon with that racket. Put that away!”

Grumbling, the two hylobans supporting the weapon folded the supports and hefted it, lugging it back to the ship. Peter pressed himself into the sheltering triangle of the ramp, fumbling for his comlink. _Okay, bad, bad idea to come here alone_.

“Kid, where in Odin’s name are you?” Tony’s voice crackled out. Peter clamped his fingers over the sound. "I close my eyes for ten minutes —"

“I’m in… I found something,” he whispered, cringing as boots trampled overhead. “Senator Stane is here, I think you need to…..”

A sharp whine pierced his senses, driving like a needle between his ears. He cried out, dropping the comlink and covering his head. Gnarled, two-thumbed hands yanked him out of his hiding place, shoving his arms down to his sides and tearing away his lightsaber. _Kriff, kriff, turn it off, turn_ **_it off_** _!_

“Ease up, Monger,” the soothing drone of Stane’s voice broke through the buzzing in his head. “I think he’s one of Tony’s projects.” 

The whining noise cut off, filtering in the rasp of masked breathing, barking languages and rattling metal. Peter jumped as Stane loomed in front of him, fingering a small device.

“Interesting,” the arthurian senator said. “You know what this is, don’t you?” At Peter’s clueless stare he elaborated, “It’s a frequency disruptor. A comlink jammer, if you will. It cuts off all communication devices in a twenty-foot radius.” Blue eyes studied Peter with callous intrigue. “I’ve never seen it repel a human, let alone a Jedi.”

“What do you want to do with him?” asked the sentient holding Peter down. Oh. Mechanized vocalizer, purple skin, six fingers with claws. Rogue anomids were definitely on the list of _‘Do not engage without supervision.’_

“Does Tony know you’re here?” Stane asked. 

Eyes wide in innocence, Peter shook his head.

“Really?” Scooping up Peter’s comlink, Stane flitted through the recent calls. “But you contacted him. I wonder how much can transpire in a fifteen second call.”

“He doesn’t know where I am,” Peter blurted out. “He just knows I ran off on my own.” 

“Following ripple fire,” Stane figured, glaring at the hylobans. “A clever master like Stark; it won’t take him too long to follow your trail. Or is there anything to follow? A padawan traveling on his own in a predatory jungle?” He nodded at the soldiers. “Scout around. If anything moves, shoot it. The rest of you, pack up the camp.”

“No, wait!” Peter urged, buckling out of the anomid’s grip. “It’s true! I came alone. Master Stark had nothing to do with it.” 

Stane stared at him like he’d sprouted antennae and extra legs. “Monger, I told you to hold the kid.”

Iron fingers gripped his shoulder, and Peter brushed it off agitatedly. “Look, I _promise_ , I didn’t have time to tell anyone. Even if Master Stark did follow me he’d never find the camp before you left, I’m way faster than he is, he’s probably _hours_ away right now —”

“I believe you, Kid,” Stane said with a strange look in his eyes. He stepped closer, backing Peter against the anomid, and gnarled hands encased his wrists. Blue eyes scrutinized him from head to toe, focusing on his exposed forearms. “In fact, maybe it would explain how an undersized apprentice keeps slaking my brute enforcer.”

“Senator….” one of the human soldiers said, backing away from the speederbikes. “You won’t believe this, but there’s something nesting inside the exhaust pipes.”

“In every single speeder,” echoed the dyplotod beside him.

Nodding at Monger, Stane snagged Peter’s wrist as muscled hands latched around his waist. He prodded at the slits, ignoring Peter’s flush as the feeling of violation crawled up his spine. “Well, that’s something new in the galaxy.”

“So what, he’s some strain of arachnoid?” the dyplotid said. “Is that native to the planet?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Stane said, gripping Peter’s wrist with bruising force and peering into his eyes. Grey fingers reached for his curls and Peter yanked his wrist away, striking out with the Force. Soldiers tumbled and Stane fell back, white robes smudging in trampled vegetation. Wrestling to the side, Peter fell to his hands and knees and scrambled, pitching away from the grasping dyplotid. 

The unbearable _shriek_ of electronic interference cut through the clearing and he stumbled, one hand clutching his ear while he tried to run. Four bodies flung him down, multiple hands slamming down his windmilling limbs, ripping away the clip-on braid, pinning his shoulders, grinding his face into the dirt. Something pressed into his neck and _sliced_ , metal stapling into muscle and skin, and the Force vanished. 

“Hold him down this time,” Stane said, placing the frequency disruptor in Peter’s line of vision. He whined, shoulders drawing up to his ears, the _thing_ pulling on the wound in his neck. “Never thought I'd see the day."

“If the apprentice is difficult to manage, think of the master,” the dyplotid warned. 

“Tony’s an immature child, playing with things beyond his control,” Stane said. He grabbed Peter’s chin, tilting his head for inspection. “This isn’t the Force; it’s heritage.”

_Don’t say it._

“You remember Mary,” Stane said to Monger. “Pretty little four-armed thing that traveled with Tony’s squad. Word is she finally netted one of their kind.”

_Don’t say it like that!_ Eyes stinging, Peter focused on Tony’s reassurances. His parents were heroes, even if they didn’t always follow the way. They fought for the light. They were good.

“I think it’s only fair to preserve Mary’s legacy,” Stane considered. “The carbon museums are always looking for new pieces. Put him below with the other one. No need to be gentle.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part II is finished, and awaiting the editing process. (This was supposed to be a oneshot. Why can't I ever write simple whump?) O_o


End file.
